


The Cosmic Sequence, Book One: Waking Up To You

by unkissed



Category: Original Work
Genre: ADHD, Anxiety Disorder, Autism Spectrum, Bisexuality, Character(s) of Color, Disability, Explicit Language, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Novel, Origin Story, Original Fiction, Psychosis, Science Fiction, Series, Superpowers, Teen Romance, Teenage Drama, Teenagers, Urban Fantasy, Work In Progress, draft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: After his dorm room is destroyed in a mysterious blaze, Julien must prove he’s not an arsonist or face time in juvenile detention. But how can he make anyone believe he’s innocent, especially his crush-worthy new roommate, when he can’t explain why things have a way of spontaneously igniting around him?
Comments: 26
Kudos: 8





	1. SUMMARY AND CHAPTER ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of original fiction. I'm posting it here to get feedback, constructive criticism, and encouragement. I've been working on this novel since 2017. As of February 2021, it is nearly finished. I will post a chapter or two in regular intervals. Your comments are greatly appreciated.

SUMMARY 

After his dorm room is destroyed in a mysterious blaze, Julien must prove he’s not an arsonist, or face time in juvenile detention. But how can he make anyone believe he’s innocent, when he can’t explain why things have a way of spontaneously igniting around him?

While Jules awaits his court date, a job opportunity brings his family across the pond to America, where his father grudgingly enrolls him in a high school for alternative learning. At Masters Academy, Jules finally gets the academic and emotional support that English boarding schools had never afforded him. But despite the help he receives for his ADHD and anxiety, Jules finds it difficult to focus on anything, and it isn’t just because he’s distracted by his crush-worthy roommate, Alex.

When Jules begins to have flashbacks, he discovers that he’s not alone. His comrade in neurodivergence, Sabrina, believes that, beneath the _Cultivated Environment of Serenity,_ there’s something weird about Masters Academy that triggers these psychological episodes.

Could it be something supernatural, like the ghosts whose voices only Alex can hear? Or are they all just a little bit crazy?

Perhaps the truth that will exonerate Jules of his crime is a memory that only Masters Academy can excavate from his head.

As his court date in London looms, Jules is starting to think he should plead not guilty by reason of insanity. Then maybe he’ll be court-ordered to stay under the supervision of the psychologists at Masters. Maybe he’ll even have a chance with Alex… that is, if Jules doesn’t lose his mind or burn down the school first.

CHAPTER ONE

I honestly don’t know how it started, the fire that got me expelled from Bridgehampton School.

I’d already been expelled from four boarding schools in the UK for far worse offenses. Blaspheming the church with aptly-placed stickers, violating the code of conduct with duct tape, destroying school property with vintage Ferragamo boots, disrespecting authority with a sharp tongue and a dull pencil, acting impulsively with a leather bound edition of _Pride and Prejudice_. None of these offenses resulted in criminal charges.

I know what you’re probably thinking. _Julien Dufour! Your desk was on fire! That’s much worse than kicking a hole through a closet door, young man!_ But understand that the severity of misconduct is measured, not by the damage done, but by intention. That’s what my lawyer said.

I bloody well intended to damage my closet door at my previous school. I mean, how else was I going to escape after arseholes locked me in there on International Coming Out Day? Conversely, it was not my intention to set fire to my dormitory at Bridgehampton. It just happened.

 _But Julien, fires don’t happen just like that!_ Yeah, I knew you’d say that. And all _I_ can say is that fires have a way of happening, _just like that_ , when I’m around. I swear, I’m not a pyromaniac. I have a healthy respect for fire.

For example, I don’t permit my father and Mateo to sing on my birthday, lest the candles on my cake stay lit too long and accidentally cause a blaze.

Don’t look at me like that. It actually happened once.

Wee desk fires aside (I mean the desk was wee – the fire was actually quite large), the series of events that lead to my expulsion from Bridgehampton weren’t my fault. I blame the banana.

 _But Julien—_ Oh shut it. I’m obviously going to explain.

To arm myself against the negative attention that seemed to find me at every new school, Bridgehampton being the fifth school since age twelve, I had aligned with an elite assemblage of the most desired, most feared, most influential young women, who wielded designer handbags and practiced being cruel like it was a martial art. Being a supreme bitch was an effective and enjoyable means of survival in the stratified social system of Bridgehampton.

One could argue that the girls only took a tetchy teenage boy into their fold as a novelty, but at the time, I didn’t care that I was their racially ambiguous gay mascot. If I had remained a feisty little lone wolf without a pack, I would’ve been more vulnerable to attacks from alpha males and their immediate subordinates.

The girls and I were spilling The Tea at lunchtime as usual, serving up sass and throwing shade. They were eating their salads, depriving their developing bodies of nourishment to stay skinny enough to bag one of Bridgehampton’s alpha males. I was eating a banana, not because I wanted to stay bony, but because I hate lettuce, and because I wasn’t allowed to eat real food, lest I tempt my companions into sin with calories.

As I opened my mouth to take my first bite, one of Bridgehampton’s alpha males strutted by. Michael Crawley, a beautiful empty head on broad shoulders.

“Teaching the girls your technique, Dufour?” Michael made a vulgar gesture with his hand and his mouth, suggesting I was giving lessons on giving head.

The wry twist of his lips, while sending a surge of hot fury up the back of my neck, signaled to his thick-headed subordinates that they were expected to laugh at my expense. I hated that grin. That cruel smirk that secretly said, _you’re a filthy abomination… but I like it._

I had an answer for every arsehole, and little, if any, impulse control, and Michael Crawley made being cheeky a bloody autonomic response.

“They ought to learn from the best,” I said. My own cruel smirk dared him to try me.

“Brilliant. I like a girl who can deep-throat.” The way his eyes lingered on me just a little too long after surveying my companions, could make an astute person wonder if Michael also liked boys who could deep-throat.

The girls rolled their eyes as a synchronized unit, despite the fact that two out of four would get on their knees for Michael Crawley in a heartbeat. Hell, _I_ would’ve gotten on my knees for Michael Crawley if his toxic masculinity and homophobia ( _cough_ self-hatred) weren’t such turnoffs. One couldn’t deny that he was rather fit.

“Are you asking me to? Because I’ll tell you right now, you’re not my type,” I said.

“I’m everyone’s type,” said Michael.

“I’m a size queen, honey. I doubt you’d make the cut.” A raised pinky alleged his small endowment.

His friends fought back laughter, barely able to keep themselves from reacting to my sick burn. _Match point, Julien Dufour._

“You’d choke on me,” said Michael.

“Yeah I would choke. I’d gag from the stench,” I said.

Leah snorted quietly. Jasmine gave her shoulder a subtle, reprimanding smack.

Michael’s shit-eating grin bent into a scowl and his cheeks turned the color of his ginger hair. He raised his fist fast enough to make me flinch, but before his knuckles could acquaint themselves with my high cheekbones, Headmaster Richards intervened.

Michael’s fist became a pointed finger. “He provoked me.”

“I did not!” I protested, looking to my girls for backup. They suddenly became very interested in wilting lettuce.

Headmaster Richards shook his head slowly and crossed his arms. “You bring this upon yourself, Mr. Dufour. One day your shameless need for attention will land your head in a sling.”

“I wasn’t seeking attention,” I grumbled. I was eating my boring lunch. Can’t a bloke eat a banana in peace without being subjected to homophobia? Is it a crime to eat a banana while gay?

The next day, I had a banana for lunch in defiance, which evoked the same pantomimed response from Michael.

“Why do you keep egging him on?” Jasmine asked me.

“What am I supposed to do? Ignore him? Let him think it’s alright to treat me like that?”

“Well yeah, if you want to keep your pretty face.” Jasmine pressed my nose with the tip of her manicured finger.

“There are more important things than being pretty, Jas.”

Jasmine took me by the chin and smiled like a knife. “Not if being pretty is all you’ve got.”

As queen bee of our little crew, Jasmine was highly skilled at dealing subtle jabs that stung hard. She was the only one who knew the truth about me. With a recognizable surname, it wasn’t difficult to swindle everyone into believing I was just as wealthy as my fellow classmates.

I may not have had cash to burn, but I had principles. So I kept eating bananas like I was bloody entitled to it. And really, wasn’t I entitled to eat whatever the fuck I wanted? Except pizza. I would’ve killed for a slice of pizza. But according to Jasmine, cheese was the devil.

Every day at lunch was the same. Eating a banana would escalate to posturing, sometimes necessitating faculty intervention. It got boring, so I switched it up in the final week of term before exams and ate an apple.

“Where’s your banana, Dufour?” Michael asked.

“I lost it up your arse last night. You loved it,” I drawled.

Michael must have been in a mood and on laxatives, because he lost his shit. His fist reached my face and knocked the smug grin off my mouth.

Rather than coming to my aide, my friends shrank back, unwilling to break a nail for a fallen comrade. Or more likely, I wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t like they were too prim to fight. In fact, last month, Leigh lost a hair extension when she got into a brawl with a girl who called Jasmine a slut.

Still dizzy from the head trauma, left high and dry by the girls who were supposed to be my ride-or-die _,_ I pulled back my scrawny arm to throw a retaliatory punch at Michael, only to be caught before I could land a blow. _Shit,_ the headmaster’s timing was ridiculously impeccable. True to form, Richards blamed _me_ for the incident.

“I didn’t start with Crawley! Tell them, girls.”

Jasmine tossed her flat-ironed hair over her shoulder and shrugged coolly. Leigh looked like she was about to speak in my defense, but Jasmine shot her a subtle warning glare that shut her right up. Cara and Shimita examined their gel-tipped nails. It was a punch to the stomach when I was still reeling from a punch to the face. Were any of them ever really my friends?

“Seriously?” I threw my arms up. “Crawley messes with me every bloody day.”

In his office, Headmaster Richards looked at me with small, scrutinizing eyes, and spoke in a low, disgusted grumble. “I truly believe there is something wicked about you. Something that craves violence. You think that if you can provoke Mr. Crawley to hit you, you’ll earn sympathy from your classmates. You enjoy playing the victim because it earns you attention that you can not otherwise command with an amiable personality.”

 _Ouch._ Headmaster Richards had read me with the brutality of a drag show emcee. The truth hurt like midday hunger pains. He was wrong about a lot, like the cloying-for-sympathy and the playing-the-victim bits, but what he got right was spot on. _I concede the match, Headmaster_.

“I am calling a disciplinary hearing. Your place at this school will be at stake,” said Headmaster Richards.

Meanwhile, Michael Crawley was getting off with a mere detention. Fuck. This. Place.

The disciplinary hearing wouldn’t be necessary. I wasn’t keen on coming back for sixth form anyway. I ensured my expulsion when I trashed my dormitory room that night, beginning with wrenching the blinds off the window. And yeah, that secret wicked part of me that craved destruction took sweet satisfaction from the resultant clattering crash on the wood floor.

When I knocked everything off my desk with a single swift sweeping motion of my arm, my hands tingled with pins-and-needles. But instead of numb, my hands were warm. The tips of my fingers prickled with a burst of metallic heat, like static electricity without the shock.

A flame surged from where I had just cleared the desktop. It happened so suddenly and grew so quickly, I wondered if I was hallucinating on my anxiety meds. The fire was very real and very hot where I stood immobile before it, watching it leap up to lick the ceiling. Even the eardrum piercing screech of the fire alarm could not shake me from the shock.

My thoughts flit from explanation to explanation, but I couldn’t find anything that would exonerate me from this mess. How could I convince Headmaster Richards that another fire started _just like that_ , when I could hardly believe it myself? The excuse I ultimately gave Richards and the police was that the plug of my alarm clock sparked in the wall socket when I had yanked it out, igniting a greasy napkin.

If it weren’t for the sprinkler system, the room would’ve gone up in flames. Maybe even the whole goddamn school would’ve been consumed by my fiery rage. Wouldn’t _that_ have been spectacular? But instead, it rained on everyone’s parade. I went out as a wet blanket. Not in flames.

At least I got to fuck off before final exams.

The morning of my exit, I was appalled to find Michael Crawley walking down the corridor with his arm draped over Jasmine’s shoulders. I glared at Jasmine, jaw agape and arms crossed, as she and her new conquest sauntered past. She glanced away from me without a word, not so much in guilt as in disregard, confirming my expulsion from her pack. It was apparent that all I had ever been to them was a fashionable accessory that was easily exchanged for something shinier.

Anyway, I’d been growing bored of being their mascot. I wanted real friends – people who had my back and really cared about me, who let me eat whatever I wanted.

Michael sent Jasmine off with a pat on the arse and approached me, that fucking smirk of his twisting in delectable ways that made me want to punch him in his pretty mouth, which looked freshly kiss-bruised. Apparently Jasmine’s teeth were as sharp as her wit.

“You forgot something,” Michael said.

I balled my fists, ready for a final showdown. I could already taste how delicious it would be to finally get in a really good punch.

Then I realized he was holding my rucksack. In my rush to pack my bags, I hadn’t even noticed it was gone.

I snatched the rucksack out of his hand and narrowed my slender eyes. “What’ve you done to it?”

“Nothing,” he said, grinning darkly, “Parting gift for you inside.”

I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of opening my bag in front of him. As soon as he turned around, I wrenched it open and found a banana. _Of course_.

Attached to the banana was an ink-smudged note on scrap paper.

_Think of me._

These three little words would be sweet out of context. But after what he’d done, his message was menacing and haunting.

“Wanker!” was my weak, uninspired response. I had to have the last word.

He spun around, pressed his tongue into his cheek and jerked his hand side to side. I gave him the finger. He flashed that devilish smirk of his, and I felt a sinister hand ghost the back of my neck, a hot phantom touch, a surge of lust and disgust and shame. I tilted my head to crack the tightness out of my vertebrae.

I hated myself for letting Michael get to me. For letting him win. For those shameful moments I’d spent in my bed, imagining I was Michael’s dirty little secret. His enemy on the streets, but his sweetheart in the sheets. Shit like that only happened in movies, and rarely did it happen to _boys_ in movies. Never to boys like me. Unless we’re talking about the kind of movies that require one to clear their internet browser history after watching.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m a sixteen-year-old boy with needs. _Yeah. Special needs._ Oh, shut up, will you?

#

When Father and Mateo arrived at Bridgehampton to collect me, they cared more about the reason for my expulsion than the expulsion itself, having been through this four times already. In the car ride home, Mateo asked me the same question seven different ways, hoping I’d give him an answer that was more forthcoming than _I have no idea how the fire started; it was an accident._

“Were you angry about something?” Mateo asked.

“Well, yeah. But not angry enough to set my bloody desk on fire. You know me. I don’t even like it when Father smokes in the car.”

Father took a deep pull from his cigarette.

“Put that out. Please, Seb,” Mateo asked my father gently.

“But I’m stressed,” Father drawled, with as much stress in his voice as a Buddhist monk on Xanax.

I scoffed loudly, wordlessly.

I could see Father’s eyes rolling in the rearview mirror. He couldn’t be arsed to care that I’d gotten expelled. There would always be another boarding school that could be swindled into taking a Dufour with a well-written essay.

“Maybe you were stressed too, eh Julien?” Father asked, the lilt of his French accent heavily insinuating something.

I made a sour face. “I’d never. Smoking is a filthy habit.”

Mateo plucked the cigarette from my father’s mouth and flicked it out the window. I tried not to think about the repercussions of such a careless means of discarding a lit cigarette, but visions of dry grass igniting on the roadside flashed in my mind.

“What were you angry about?” Mateo asked, “Was it that guy, Michael? Headmaster Richards told us you’d been fighting again.”

I shrugged.

“That’s quite the shiner you’re sporting,” he said with concern, turning around to reassess the damage he’d already fussed over in front of the whole bloody school.

I sank deeper into the back seat and raked my bleach blonde fringe over my blackened eye. “It’s fine. I don’t even feel it anymore.”

“Did Headmaster Richards blame you for it again?” he asked.

I stared out the window and scoffed through my teeth. “Always.”

Mateo sighed and shook his head slowly. “How can these damn schools blame the victim? It’s unacceptable.”

Father mumbled, “Julien is hardly a victim.” He knew me too well, and not in a fond way. More like he was calling me out.

“I think he secretly fancied me.”

“The ones who hurt you the most, often do,” said Mateo.

How fucked up is _that_? I shuddered.

Mateo lovingly caressed the back of my father’s neck as they exchanged knowing glances. Something about that affectionate gesture and Mateo’s words made the muscles at my nape tighten.

I couldn’t imagine them being anything but unabashedly in love. I couldn’t picture them beating the shit out of each other over a girl – the girl who would become my mother.

It didn’t seem worth it. Risking bodily harm in the off chance it would lead to a hook up.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be like this,” Mateo said gently. “We don’t have to send you to another school like Bridgehampton.”

“Are you proposing we put him in a state school?” Father said, as if it was the most demeaning thing a Dufour could do, “Like your American public schools?”

“Jules needs a different kind of learning environment,” said Mateo.

“He’s a Dufour,” Father said firmly, without raising his voice. Our family name was his answer to everything.

Mateo removed his hand from the back of Father’s neck. “Yes, he’s a Dufour. But he’s a Dufour with ADHD and anxiety. You keep sending him to these fancy pants European boarding schools that refuse to acknowledge his special needs.”

I leaned forward to peek between the front seats. “Erm, don’t I have a say in where I go to school?”

“Yes,” said Mateo.

“No,” said Father.

I always listened to the one who told me what I wanted to hear. Usually, it was Mateo.

“Maybe I could go to that arts and culture _lycée_ in Paris I was telling you about. I’m still French.” Half-French, technically.

“Hardly,” said Father, the rearview mirror reflecting detachment in his cold, blue eyes, eyes that were starkly dissimilar to mine. I knew that he wasn’t being racist and wasn’t referring to my matriarchal Filipino roots.

“Whose fault is that?” I said pointedly.

In the mirror, Father’s glance shifted sideways with scant guilt. He gave a noncommittal, single-shouldered shrug. “I’ll think about it.”

“About whose fault it is that I’m hardly French?” I grinned too widely like the little shit that I was. I knew what he’d meant. I just wanted to remind him how resentful I was that he’d gotten us exiled from the land of my birth.

“I’ll think about sending you to _lycée_ in Paris.”

I made a quiet celebratory gesture with my fist.

#

Shortly after I had left Bridgehampton, the school year had ended for my former classmates. The summer would begin with Jasmine’s end-of-term party, as it always had. Last year’s soiree had been legendary. A very stupid part of me held out hope that I’d get an invitation.

I didn’t. Maybe I could’ve just crashed the party, but what was the point of going where I wasn’t welcome? Even if I had just found the perfect Versace button down shirt from a consignment shop?

Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I watched the party unfold from the safety of my social media feed. Jasmine posted a selfie with Michael Crawley. He was all over her, putting on a stupid face with his tongue hanging out – the sort of face that said, _I’m going to hook up with this girl tonight_. The picture made me want to vomit.

Every post of Michael, Jasmine, Leigh, Cara, and Shimita crowding together in a photo, twisted my stomach with jealousy.

A new post notification popped up at the top of my Instagram feed. When I saw a photo of Jasmine and Michael kissing, the rusty knife that had lodged itself in my side, twisted in my gut. Good thing I had my tetanus jab.

Jasmine’s caption read, _We’re officially a thing. Mikey gave me his ring!_ Michael’s gold ring with his family crest, now hung on Jasmine’s chain necklace. I wondered if the boar and three crosses of the Crawley family crest had been stamped on my face when Michael punched me. It was certainly imprinted on my brain.

 _Happy for you,_ I commented on the photo. The great thing about vacant words floating through the Internet is that sarcasm is often lost. Maybe it seemed like I was rising above and being gracious. Fuck graciousness.

Michael commented on my comment with a banana emoji.

I promptly un-followed everyone from Bridgehamton on social media, thus putting another group of fake friends in the past. I took things a half-step further by phoning the police to inform them that there were minors drinking alcohol at a party with no adult supervision at number fifteen Eaton Square. I say _half_ step, because a _full_ step would have involved a flaming paper bag of dog shit on Jasmine’s front steps. I refrained because Jasmine always said revenge was a dish best served in moderation, like carbs. _Ugh,_ I really needed to unlearn the gospel according to Jasmine.

I could start undoing her influence by indulging in the gravest of sins. Pizza. I popped down to the shops, and one personal pie quickly escalated to two. Fuck moderation.

Sated and maybe a little bit smug, I returned to the flat. I stopped short at the end of the corridor when I saw two police officers at my door, talking with my father and Mateo. _Shit._ I probably shouldn’t have called the cops on Jasmine’s party.


	2. Chapter 2

From the look on my father’s face, I realized that this wasn’t about me snitching on Jasmine. His expression rarely ever changed from cool indifference. And now, he almost looked distressed.

“Arson? That’s ridiculous,” Mateo argued with the officers, “Julien already gave a statement to the police. It was an accident.”

Cold dread poured down my back, stiffening my spine. I instinctively took a step back. Then another. Each slow step in retreat was bogged down by the heaviness in my gut, my insides twisting with the curdling cheese in my stomach. I probably shouldn’t have had that second pizza.

“The investigation revealed no signs of an electrical spark from the wall socket,” said one of the officers.

“What does this mean?” my father asked haughtily.

“He’ll be brought in for charges and released on bail. That is, if he cooperates and comes away without a fight.”

_Fuck. Me._

It was then that Mateo saw me. I could tell he was trying very hard not to make eye contact, perhaps hoping the officers wouldn’t notice I was creeping backwards down the corridor, away from our flat.

“And if he doesn’t cooperate?” my father asked. I inwardly huffed, indignant that my father thought so low of me that he assumed I’d resist arrest. Well, technically, I _was_ resisting arrest, however quietly.

“If he doesn’t cooperate, we’ll have to use force to apprehend him.”

Basically, I was fucked if I stayed, and fucked if I ran, but I couldn’t decide which way I’d rather be fucked. _Honestly, Jules, that mouth of yours._ Oh for fuck’s sake, give me a break; I was facing arrest!

I’d been given a harsh warning by cops before. A firm slap on the wrist. But I’d never been cuffed and taken away. Though my intention had been to cause destruction of school property, I never thought of my intentions as criminal, and most definitely never arson.

I took another step backward and I bumped into something solid. Or rather, _someone_ solid I realized, when I turned around to find a gentleman with curly salt-and-pepper hair standing too close.

He smiled at me, wrinkling the sun spots on his kind face. His hazel eyes were gentle and clear, and shone with more youth than his mellow-brown, weathered skin would have me believe.

“Hello Jules. I was just about to come talk to you. Lyric Tandy. Youth counselor with Young Offenders Advocacy Group.” He spoke with a pleasant American accent, much more approachable than the rigid police officers who were now alerted to my presence, thanks to the old man. “I’m here to help. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

“Julien Elias Dufour?” came a booming voice from down the corridor. It was never good when someone asked for me by my full name. Worse, when it was a police officer. “Stop right there! You are under arrest!”

My stomach dropped as if I’d plunged down a rollercoaster. Adrenaline surged hot through my veins, the taste of metallic panic on my tongue, and cold dread beading the sweat on my back.

I turned to the old man. “Can you get me out of here, Eric Dandy?”

The old man’s tone was still calm and warm. “It’s Lyric Tandy, son. And I’m afraid I can’t let you--”

I was gone before he could finish his sentence.

Pro tip: Never run from officers of the law. I’m not a pro, so maybe you shouldn’t be taking advice from me, but it’s still good advice. When you run from the cops, its considered resisting arrest, and you’re deemed a flight risk when they nab you. Which is why I was placed in a juvenile detention facility rather than released to my parents’ custody after I was charged with arson and criminal mischief.

My father could have scrounged up the money to bail me out, but he thought that a night or two in juvy would teach me a lesson. “You think this is a game, eh?” said my father, gesturing with a lit cigarette as he spoke coolly through the bars of my temporary holding cell. “You misbehave at school, you get expelled, I put you in another school, you do the same.” He wasn’t wrong. Though I huffed defiantly. “You think you’ll eventually get your way, but you’re never going to. You don’t understand that I’m doing what’s best for you. You’re a Dufour. I’m not sending you to some no-name Parisian _lycee_ to study literature.”

I scoffed. “You think putting me in those posh boarding schools is going to change your reputation and wipe the blood off your name, Father?”

He pulled deeply from his cigarette and took his time to exhale the smoke. The only indication that I’d struck a nerve. “I think you need to stop this foolishness. I’ll bail you out in two days. I have a catering job tomorrow.”

My father turned on his well-heeled shoes and was about to leave without even saying goodbye, when my cellmate stopped him.

“Oi, Mister. Spare a smoke?”

The boy looked like he was pushing the limit of the juvenile justice system, both in age and in his misdeeds. Not that you can really assume the severity of one’s crime from their shaved head and tattoos. But I had a pretty good hunch that this bloke hadn’t been picked up on truancy charges. When he grinned his oil slick smile, it looked like he’d done a _B and E_ with his teeth.

My father pulled a pack of Parliaments from the inside pocket of his designer jacket and held it between the bars. “You can have the whole packet if you promise not to lay a finger on my son.”

My cellmate clicked his tongue against his chipped teeth. “Only if he promises not to lay a finger on me.” He leered at me disdainfully, and he didn’t have to say anything because his appraisal of me was clear. _Faggot._

My father narrowed his eyes at the boy and kept his cigarettes. “On second thought, I’ll bail you out tomorrow morning, Julien. Think about what you’ve done.”

His name was Hell’s Bells, my cellmate. At least that’s what was tattooed on his knuckles. Those knuckles and I soon became acquainted when he spoke with his fists. Literally. He clenched his hands and pointed at me when he spoke, as if my mere existence offended him.

“You won’t last a day here, pretty boy.”

I wouldn’t let him intimidate me. At least, I wouldn’t let it show that he was scaring the fuck out of me with his knuckles. “Good thing I’m out in the morning,” I said, feigning nonchalance.

“You’ll be back,” he said, his words slow and sure and ominous.

The prospect of doing time in juvy made my stomach hurt. I didn’t belong here. I wasn’t an arsonist. I just needed to explain myself better to make the cops believe it was an accident.

“Your sugar daddy’s money can bail you out, but his money won’t be worth shit at your youth court hearing. It’ll be just you in front of the district judge. No posh solicitors to get you off easy,” said Hell’s Bells.

“You’ve been through this a lot, I’m guessing,” I said, more afraid than impressed with his knowledge of the inner workings of the British juvenile justice system.

“You’ll be right back here, pretty boy. On your knees for every bloke on the block.”

“Oh good,” I said, my voice rising to an embarrassingly high octave, “I could use the practice.” I turned away and clung to the bars, bracing myself for a fight I really didn’t want to engage in.

“ _Fookin’_ faggot.” He said it out loud this time.

I said nothing. He would’ve had to come up with more clever homophobic insults to get a clap-back out of me. And believe me, I’d heard a lot of them.

My eyes darted to every corner of the cell block, searching hopelessly through the bars for a security guard, a corrections officer, anybody that could intervene if Hell’s Bells escalated things. Because, knowing me, I wouldn’t be able to keep my smart mouth shut or my fists in my pockets, and I really didn’t want to catch a beat down in jail.

“Oi, I’m talking to you, poofter. Are you deaf?”

“I wasn’t sure I needed to reply.” I lowered my voice to a Neanderthal octave to mock his delivery of the uninspired homophobic slur. “Was _fookin’ faggot_ a question?” I immediately regret not engaging my brain-to-mouth filter.

His meaty hand clamped on the back of my neck, clammy fingers and untrimmed nails digging into muscle, probably communicating infectious skin disease. His breath was hot and wet at my ear, stinking of stale cigarette smoke, making my pasty skin crawl and my stomach roil. “Don’t disrespect me, fag. Look at me when I’m _fookin’_ talking to you.”

I took a deep breath, gripped the bars of the cell with a white-knuckled grasp, and closed my eyes in defiance. “No.”

Behind my closed eyelids, a vision of infernal ginger hair flashed in my mind. I couldn’t tell if it was a memory or my imagination, but in that flash, I felt somebody else’s hand on my neck. Clean, white fingers countering my resistance with practiced, athletic strength. Hot gold pressed against my skin. A boar and three crosses. Bile gurgling in my retching throat, coming up to meet the iron tinge of blood on my teeth. Betrayal, like worms eating dead flesh, invading my body, making me writhe in disgust. Whatever this phantom feeling was, wherever it was coming from, it just needed to stop.

“What did you say?” my cell mate’s growl snapped me out of my head and into the present.

Violence prickled my skin, the same pins-and-needles heat that I felt when I’d trashed my dorm room. Adrenaline surging through my veins. If Hell’s Bells wanted a fight, it was so fucking _ON_.

 _On_ , like bananas every day for a week.

 _On_ , like tassel pasties aptly placed on Jesus Christ’s chest in the chapel of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow after getting detention for not wearing the right kind of socks with my shorts, because if shins were obscene, then Christ’s nipples sure as fuck were.

 _On_ , like duct tape over a sleeping roommate’s mouth who tormented me with kissing noises every time Mateo phoned, because I told him for the last fucking time, Mateo was my _father’s_ boyfriend, not mine.

 _On_ , like taking a special edition leather bound copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ from the Headmistress’ office and etching _the book was better_ across the front with a dull pencil, because being forced to watch Keira Knightley butcher Elizabeth Bennett in the movie instead of going on the class trip to the art museum was undue punishment for misplacing a permission slip.

Hell’s Bells grip tightened, likely leaving dirty crescents in my delicate skin. “You’re going down on your fucking knees, faggot, and you’re going to pray to my--”

“Get the fuck off me!”

I swung around and slugged Hell’s Bells, my fist landing with a satisfying crunch the way I so badly wished I could’ve hit Michael Crawley. If the bone-splintering, white-hot pain shooting through my hand was any indication, I hit Hell’s Bells fucking _hard_. Hard enough to send him stumbling backward.

But instead of Hell’s Bells blacking out, I did. My vision blurred. The scent of singed flesh and hair was coiling around me like the tendrils of bitter sweet smoke, pulling me down to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

“You can’t deny that he’s special, Sebastien,” said Eric Dandy. Or rather, Lyric Tandy.

“He’s like us,” said Mateo, almost pleading.

“He needs to be at a special school,” said Lyric Tandy.

“He’s a Dufour,” said my father.

 _Here we go again_. Even in my dreams, the arguments were cyclical, like my school career. Like my life. My father had been right. This was a game, but he was deluded if he thought he wasn’t playing it just as much as I was. For my whole life, he had forced me into schools for neurotypical rich white kids. I was none of those things, so of course I’d done my best to prove I hadn’t belonged there.

“That fire wasn’t a freak accident,” said Mateo, “Maybe he didn’t set it consciously, but _he did it_. He did it… _again._ ” Did Mateo think I set my desk on fire on purpose? Did he think I did that sort of thing all the time?

I wasn’t a liar. I wasn’t an arsonist. Mateo should’ve known that. I lied through my teeth to my father all the time, but I never lied to Mateo. I opened my mouth to speak in my defense, but I found that my throat was dry. You know this is a dream when Julien Dufour can’t talk back.

But _was_ it a dream? I blinked.

I didn’t remember leaving juvy _,_ or getting into the car, but there I was, on the back seat of my father’s used Volvo, awake but too physically and emotionally exhausted to uncurl from my fetal position.

Father must have bailed me out soon after my fight with Hell’s Bells. Had there been a proper fight? I couldn’t remember him hitting me. I remembered blacking out. I touched my face. Still in-tact, no pain other than raw, wet cheeks from rubbing away my tears on the crusty upholstery of the car. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying.

The conversation continued outside the parked car. I hadn’t been dreaming. They were speaking as if they thought I was still passed out inside. It was nighttime. The street lamp light rippled in the smoke from a cigarette.

“You know what that means, Sebastien… It’s almost time,” said Lyric Tandy.

Time for what? And what time was it now? The car was off, so I couldn’t check the dashboard clock. I could feel my mobile poking me in the arse, grateful that my trusty device had been returned to my trouser pocket. When I swiped over the screen with my thumb, it flashed on and promptly ran out of juice, which was weird because I knew I’d charged it that afternoon. But before the phone died, I saw the date and time. _Sunday, 6 th July. 20:05. _Five minutes past eight in the evening? That couldn’t be right _._

It was Saturday, and I’d been thrown in jail around half past nine, gotten into a scuffle with my cellmate soon after. How long had I been passed out? Almost twenty four hours? What the hell happened? Not knowing filled me with panic.

I strained to hear the conversation through the car, over my quickening breath and the thumping of my pulse in my ears.

“Maybe you’re right,” my father conceded. “Maybe it’s almost time. But I don’t want him to go to _that_ school.”

“They’ll understand him there,” said Mateo, “They’ll know how to handle him. He’ll be safe. Anywhere else, he’s a danger to himself and to others.”

I wasn’t _that_ bad, was I? I mean, yeah, I was kind of a handful sometimes. But _dangerous_?

There was a long pause. I couldn’t hear it from inside the car, but I knew Father would be drawing a long breath through his nose. That had always been his response when he didn’t want to admit that Mateo was right.

“For argument’s sake,” my father began, “let’s say he doesn’t have to serve time in juvenile detention. Unlikely, but let’s just assume he’ll somehow be exonerated of those charges. So we send him to Masters Academy. Let’s say they manage to stabilize him. And then what?” Father asked with an accusatory edge. “I know what happens at that school. We discussed this a long time ago. I never wanted that for Julien.”

He never wanted _what_ for me? He wasn’t talking about a proper education, of that I was sure. What would happen to me if I went to Masters Academy?

“It doesn’t matter what _you_ want for him.” Mateo’s voice was becoming terse, which worried me, because he usually had more patience for my father than he deserved. “ _We_ have to do what’s right for him, so that _he_ can do what’s right when the time comes. And the time _will_ come.” Then he seemed to collect himself, and spoke with less urgency. “We tried it your way, Sebastien. Distancing Jules from people like him isn’t working. We have to try something else.”

Mateo got it. I always knew he would.

“I’ll think about it,” said my father. Which was always his strategy to end a conversation when it wasn’t going his way.

After my father, Mateo, and Lyric had gone silent, I lied in the car for several minutes trying to make sense of everything. Why had I blacked out for so long? What was this weird academy that Father was adamantly against sending me to?

You know shit is really fucked up when the most normal thing that happens is a smart-mouthed teenager winds up in jail, while an arsehole who sexually harasses and beats up said teenager is allowed to enjoy his privileged life with no repercussions, and is even rewarded with a beautiful, empowered girlfriend.

But just because injustice was such a recurring theme in my life that it had become normal, didn’t mean I had to accept _this_ injustice.

I wouldn’t serve as some skinhead’s bitch while serving time. I wouldn’t get on my knees for the whole cell block. And I wouldn’t be forced into another posh boarding school just to start the cycle all over again.

I willed my stiff body to get up and exited the car with a firm declaration. “I’m not going back there. I’m _never_ going back. I don’t belong there. I’m innocent.”

The change in elevation had made me feel faint. I wavered on my feet and had to steady myself with a hand on the car door. Mateo reached out to help me. “Jules. You’re awake.” He seemed relieved, like he’d been waiting a long time for me to get up. “You okay?”

I nodded, even though I was definitely not okay, and I let Mateo lead me away from the car. We were parked outside our building. I couldn’t remember the ride home. I must have been out cold.

My father never moved from where he was leaning against a street lamp post, except to toss his cigarette onto the ground, where at least a dozen Parliament stubs littered the pavement around his feet. “Let’s go upstairs. I’m starving.”

“I’m fine, Father, thanks for asking,” I said, bitter sarcasm flavoring my words, “No, I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten anything in, oh, twenty-four hours, but I’m totally okay. Don’t remember anything, other than you leaving me in jail to fend for myself against a Neo-Nazi. But I’m fine. I appreciate your concern.”

My father pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a long, weary sigh. “Julien…”

“We’re all exhausted. I think we could all use a good cup of tea,” said Lyric, ushering us into the building, doing his best to diffuse the tension with his aura of calm.

The air in our flat was stale and hot, as if nobody had been home for a long time. Mateo cracked opened the windows and turned on the ceiling fan.

My father let Cherie out of her bird cage, who was screeching indignantly the way she always had when she was left alone for too long. He stroked the little Quaker parrot on her head and soothed her in French. I narrowed my eyes at the bird with resentment as she angled her head into my father’s palm and cooed almost smugly, mimicking my father in her tiny parrot voice, “ _Mon petit peroquet, ma Cherie, ma Cherie._ ” I rolled my eyes.

Lyric pat the sofa cushion next to him. “Let’s talk, Jules,” he said, inviting me for a casual chat about severe criminal charges.

Mateo handed me a tin of biscuits without me having to ask him, and set a glass of milk on the coffee table in front of me. “Is Earl Grey okay, Dr. Tandy?”

 _Doctor_ Tandy?

“That’d be lovely,” the old man replied. “With a touch of honey if you have any. Thank you, son.”

He folded his hands on his lap and smiled at me. Something about his grin soothed me, comforted me, made me feel at home. He was like the grandpa I always wished I had. Not that I didn’t have a grandfather. I had a very rich, very important, very vindictive grandfather, who I hadn’t seen since I was a toddler.

“What the hell happened to me?” I asked, or more like mumbled, around a mouth full of biscuits. Realizing I was hogging the cookies, I offered him the tin. He politely declined, so I continued gorging on biscuits to appease my empty stomach, the pizza having long been digested.

“Juvenile detention isn’t the right place for you. I posted bail as soon as I could.”

 _Of course_ it was Dr. Tandy. Assuming my father had bailed me out had been wishful thinking.

“Thanks. But that was yesterday. What happened between Saturday night and Sunday night?”

As gently as he could, Lyric corrected me. “It’s Monday night, son.”

“ _Monday_? Shit.” My phone must not have updated the date and time when I’d looked at it. “I was unconscious for over two days?” I splattered cookie crumbs from my mouth onto Dr. Tandy’s gingham shirt. He casually wiped them away.

“I don’t know about _that_ , son, but I do know you’re going to need my help going forward. Those are some serious charges, kid.” His bright, hazel eyes dropped to his hands and he shook his head, as if he was sad and disappointed. “Arson and criminal mischief. My goodness.”

“I didn’t do it.”

I brushed away the resultant spray of crumbs from my lap. Lyric was smart enough to keep himself out of the line of fire this time. I couldn’t really refute the criminal mischief charge. I _did_ intend to trash my dorm room, and willful destruction of property was technically criminal mischief. I’d been threatened with a criminal mischief charge in the past, but it hadn’t stuck, and I’d been given a stern reprimand instead. I wasn’t too worried about that charge. But the more serious crime of arson was another story.

“The fire was an accident. I’m innocent,” I insisted. “What evidence do they even have?” Maybe the fire hadn’t started with a spark in the electric socket like I told the police. But I definitely didn’t start it. “You have to believe me. It was spontaneous or something.”

Dr. Tandy nodded gently. “I understand.” He didn’t understand. He didn’t believe me. From his serene smile, I could tell he was placating me.

“I need to speak with a lawyer, not a shrink.”

Dr. Tandy chuckled softly. “I’m not a shrink, Jules. And, yes, you’ll meet with someone who’ll represent you in youth court.” Hell’s Bells had lied. I _was_ entitled to legal counsel. “But it’s important that you understand your options before discussing your case with your lawyer, so you know how you intend to plea.”

“Not guilty, obviously. For both charges. I wouldn’t have trashed my room if Michael Crawley hadn’t punched me and gotten away with it.”

Mateo stepped in and explained, “Michael has been bullying Jules for a long time. I tried speaking with the Headmaster about it months ago, but these administrators don’t like to admit they have a problem with homophobia at their schools.”

I never liked that word. _Bullying_. It implied I was a powerless victim. That wasn’t me. But I didn’t correct Mateo because it wouldn’t help my case.

My father chimed in from the doorway. “For argument’s sake, let’s say that Julien is guilty.”

“Father!” I interjected. It offended me that he even entertained the thought.

“I’m not definitively saying you’re guilty, Julien. But there’s no evidence to prove your innocence. So let’s explore all our avenues.”

“Why not start with assuming I’m _not_ guilty? Why jump to assume I’m a criminal?” I glared at my father.

Lyric coughed politely into his curled fingers and smiled. “How ‘bout that Earl Grey, Sebastien?” I was impressed with how easily he diffused conflict.

Father’s departure from the room did little to ease the tension growing between my temples.

“Jules, I know it may not seem like it, but the youth justice system in the UK prefers to keep kids _out_ of their custody. Even those who are convicted of crimes. And it’s my job to make sure you’ve got a solid plan to keep you out of juvenile detention, no matter how you plead.”

I set aside the tin of biscuits and gave Lyric my full attention. “I’m listening.”

“The terms of your bail require you to enter a crime diversion program until your youth court hearing. It’s been set for December tenth, so you’re looking at about five months in diversion. Because of your special needs, you’d be better served spending those months in a reformative mental health program, rather than in a community service program.”

“I knew it,” I shook my finger accusingly at Lyric Tandy. “You’re a psychiatrist. A shrink. Whatever. You think I’m crazy and I set my room on fire.”

“The _Doctor_ in front of my name is there for my Ph.D. in Social Work,” he explained calmly. “I’ve spent my career advocating for children around the world with special needs, to keep them out of the juvenile justice system. And I’ve come all the way from New York to help you, Jules. Not because I think you’re crazy. I think you’ll end up crazy if you fall through the cracks. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. “New York, hm? How did you find me?”

“The organization I work for has eyes and ears all over the globe, looking out for cases just like yours. Kids who will just keep on offending if their special needs aren’t addressed. Kids with ADHD, or with anxiety, or with developmental or physical disabilities, or who are autistic. Kids who’ve suffered severe trauma. Kids who get into trouble because they feel invalidated. Misunderstood. Because their special needs are ignored. Sound familiar, Jules?”

It sounded so familiar that my chest ached. I nodded. I quickly blinked away any impending tears when Mateo came in with the tea tray. My father had thrown together pretty little watercress sandwiches that looked good enough to serve as nibbles at one of the parties he catered. I would’ve gobbled them up, if the milk hadn’t begun to curdle in my stomach.

I was in serious trouble. And I would do almost anything Lyric, or rather Dr. Tandy, had prescribed for me, as long as it would keep me out of a prison cell.

“Masters Academy for Alternative Learning.” Dr. Tandy presented me with a brochure.

Before I could take it, my father snatched it out of Dr. Tandy’s hands. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Whatever happened to thinking about it?” Mateo chided my father.

“I’ve thought about it. Jules needs discipline. He doesn’t need to be coddled at an alternative school.”

“Rest assured, Sebastien, Masters Academy is as dedicated to providing discipline and structure as it is to supporting students’ academic goals and emotional well-being.” Dr. Tandy sounded like he was reading a page right out of the brochure.

My father scoffed and crossed his arms. He muttered under his breath, “Empty promises.” I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I was too preoccupied with the questions filling my head.

“So if I go to an alternative school, does that count as time served if I’m found guilty? Not that I am. Just wondering.”

“That depends. The judge is more likely to allow you to continue a diversion program, such as the one offered at Masters Academy, if you admit fault. If you’re found guilty even after pleading _not guilty_ , the judge might think you have no remorse and remand you to juvenile detention.”

“That is so fucked,” I protested. My father reprimanded me in French. I apologized to Dr. Tandy, who didn’t seem fazed by my foul mouth. He’d probably heard it all before, and in every language. “I’m not going to plead guilty, cross my fingers, and hope the judge isn’t in a bad mood. I’m _not guilty_.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to work on your plea with your lawyer. Right now, we need to focus on your diversion program,” said Dr. Tandy.

Mateo eased the brochure out of my father’s hand. “Jules is being court ordered to enter a diversion program. He also needs a new school. Masters Academy kills two birds with one stone.”

Funny thing to say, considering Cherie was perched on Father’s shoulder. The corner of my lip quirked into the tiniest smirk. The bird seemed to scowl at me.

My father appeared to be mulling it over, needlessly fussing with the tea service, as if he were preparing for one of his luncheons. “Who’s paying for this program?”

“We’ve got it covered,” said Dr. Tandy.

Nobody bothered to question who he was referring to. Mateo and Father didn’t have to pay for it, and I guessed that was good enough for them.

“Who’s paying for his flights back and forth?” my father turned from Dr. Tandy to me. “He didn’t bother to tell you that Masters Academy is in America. New York.”

Wait. What? That seemed very weird. Would the English juvenile justice system really allow me to enter a diversion program in another country? Technically, I wasn’t even a British citizen, so maybe England would be glad to be rid of me.

“Wouldn’t you just _love_ to ship me off to The States, Father?”

“No. I don’t like the idea of sending you off to run amok in America. You think the cops are harsh here, Julien?” He scoffed.

“Oh, that’s right,” I smirked darkly, “You’re well acquainted with the NYPD, Father. Aren’t you.”

“Can I get a little more honey? Just a smidge, please,” Dr. Tandy interrupted cordially, lifting his tea cup, as if the tension between my father and I hadn’t reached a boiling point.

“Why don’t you get the honey, Seb,” Mateo ordered more than suggested.

My father cracked the tension out of his neck in his retreat, the only indication that I’d frazzled him.

Dr. Tandy set his teacup down and got up from the sofa. “You’ve had a long day, Jules. And you’ve got a lot to think about. So why don’t I leave you with a couple more diversion program brochures? Take some time to explore your options, and I’ll be in touch with your father soon.”

I nodded.

“Mateo, do you mind walking me down to the tube station?” asked Dr. Tandy. I got the sense that he wanted to talk with Mateo alone. But why Mateo? Sure, he was more of a parent than my father ever was, but ultimately, my future was in Father’s hands, not Mateo’s.

#

For someone who had apparently blacked out and had just spent two days unconscious, I slept surprisingly like the dead that night. Visions of tattooed fists and a busted grin engulfed in flames plagued my nightmares. I had never been so happy to wake up in my own bed. I wasn’t typically claustrophobic, but after spending some time in jail, and my history with closets, I didn’t like being behind a closed door. I’m sure Mateo and my father heard my nighttime turmoil from their room.

“You haven’t taken your medication in days.” My father plunked down the pill vials in front of me at breakfast.

Days? Plural? …Oh right. Days.

“About that. What happened to me in juvy? How long was I there?”

“What are you talking about?” Father scoffed. “You weren’t there long enough to lose track of time.”

Mateo put a plate of _huevos rancheros_ in front of me and the smell of his homemade salsa distracted me from my questions. Anyway, I really didn’t want to dwell on my prison days. Or day. Whatever. I just wanted to forget it and move on, never to return.

I shuffled through the diversion program brochures. Most of them were community service projects around the UK, like Habitat for Humanity, but I probably couldn’t be trusted with carpentry tools. For my own safety, I mean. Committing acts of violence against others with a hammer was not my thing.

There were a few special needs schools around Europe. One of them was in France, but it was on a farm in the country. Gross. An institute in South Africa almost sounded cool, except that it might have had religious affiliations, and I was not down with that. The brochure from Masters Academy was conspicuously missing.

#

A week later, Mateo made a big announcement. He’d finally received funding for his research. He’d be the lead scientist for the project at a huge pharmaceutical company. As luck would have it, EpiGen was located in New York, an hour away from Masters Academy.

I was so chuffed for him. Mateo deserved this break after busting his arse for years trying to get grant money for his genetics research. I gave him a high-five, even though hugs were more our thing. I hadn’t been very huggy since I’d left Bridgehampton. Not sure why.

“That’s brilliant! Hey, if I’m lucky, this will mean we’re _both_ moving to the states!”

“Actually, we’re _all_ moving to the states!” Mateo proclaimed excitedly.

My father heaved a pained sigh, as if he were being dragged to a child’s birthday party with clowns.

“You’re not staying?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Father said with a defensive little huff, “Mateo and I have never been apart for more than two weeks in the past thirteen years. Anyway, if you’re going to that silly alternative school, I shouldn’t be too far away. Otherwise, you might not return to London for your court hearing.”

“Oh. I see,” I drawled, connecting the dots, “You’re going to America for Mateo. And you’re dragging me with you because you don’t trust me. You’re only letting me go to Masters Academy because its now convenient for you. You don’t care about what’s best for me.”

I stormed out of the room and out of the flat. My father called after me, but didn’t try very hard to make me come back. It was looking like another pizza day.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s nothing like an arrest record and an open criminal investigation to slow down the student visa application process.

By the time I had arrived in New York, on the verge of seventeen, I only had a week before I would start a new school in a new country. Instead of acclimating myself to my new environs, soaking in the last blissfully warm, sunny days of my first American summer, I squandered those days holed up inside, miserable and salty, unpacking boxes and cleaning to make our new old, dank house livable. We only ventured away from the house once, for pizza.

Only _real_ New York pizza would do. We took the Metro North commuter rail down to the city to resurrect Mateo’s old Mini Cooper from a garage in the Bronx. While we were there, we had pizza in the neighborhood where Mateo had grown up. _God,_ it was good pizza. Tangy tomato sauce and oil seeping into thin crust beneath oozing cheese. If it was the only good thing about America, I’d take it.

Just being in Mateo’s old haunt seemed to brighten his whole demeanor, with loud music rumbling from car stereos, and many different languages spoken boisterously from the front stoops of row houses, and the spiced steam wafting up from food trucks offering a United Nations variety of street fare.

Conversely, Father appeared to itch beneath his skin. Though we weren’t in a rough neighborhood, it was still far too close to slumming it for his liking, so we didn’t stay long.

With the Mini Cooper’s air conditioner busted, and the windows open, the kitten purr putter of the engine and the end-of-summer heat lulled me to sleep in the back seat on the drive back up to Westchester County. It was the first time I’d slept in weeks without flames burning through my nightmares.

#

Just when I was beginning to enjoy it, the summer ended, and it was time to start the diversion program at my new school.

Mateo had decided it would be _nice_ to take the scenic route to Masters Academy. I wouldn’t have called it nice, but, whatever. I wasn’t in a rush to get there anyway. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bit nervous. I had never completed a diversion program, let alone a diversion program at a special needs school, so I had no idea what I was in for, other than discipline and therapy.

I searched for any signs of a school as the road zigzagged down a steep gorge. There were no buildings at all – only trees, and more bloody trees, and an obscene amount of nature, and a wide river that was as straight as Michael Crawley pretended to be.

I stuck my head out the window for some air.

“Maybe not such a good idea, buddy,” said Mateo, “I mean, how are you supposed to get _ahead_ of your classmates if you lose yours?”

Mateo was rubbish at making jokes. I’d call them _dad jokes_ if Mateo were my actual father. Though not biologically related to me, he at least cared enough to help me settle into a new school. My father-by-blood, however, couldn’t be arsed to do it and was staying home today.

I had just decided that we were completely lost in the backwoods of upstate New York, when a fortress of brick and stone came into view beneath us at the bottom of the gorge. As we drew closer, I could see that it was on a little island in the river.

We came to the riverbank where a dodgy stone gatehouse sat, crumbling and abandoned. Just beyond the gatehouse, a low one-lane bridge connected the riverbank to the island _._

A modern-looking sign plastered over the broken gatehouse window warned, _PRIVATE PROPERTY: Bridge for Authorized Vehicles Only._

There were letters etched into the weathered stone above the window of the gatehouse. I could barely make out the eroded words: _SANATORIUM._

My stomach clenched. Everyone had lied to me. This was no diversion program. This was a bloody insane asylum.

Mateo parked the car and turned off the engine.

“Are you sure this is right? This doesn’t seem right. I don’t think we’re supposed to be here. Did you put the right address into your mobile? Maybe the GPS is wonky.”

Mateo turned to me with a soft smile. “This is the place. I’m sure of it. Looks exactly like I remembered it.” He cleared his throat and quickly added, “In the picture on the prospectus.”

I hadn’t bothered to fish out the brochure from the bin, where my father most likely tossed it.

The structure looming on the other side of the bridge appeared more like a castle than a school, with its narrow windows and stone ramparts. Having spent time at juvy, I could say with complete certainty that this place didn’t resemble a juvenile detention center – no, that would be too generous.

It was a goddamn Medieval prison.

“Looks like the Tower of London,” I said, wringing my fingers around the hemline of my shirt. “Is it common for Americans to incarcerate special needs children?”

“You’re going to be fine,” chuckled Mateo, though I wasn’t trying to be funny, “I promise, Americans aren’t so bad.”

Mateo was American, and he was alright.

He got out and opened my door. I hesitated to exit the car. Was I expected to walk across the bridge? It looked like it would take maybe five minutes to cross, but I had luggage and boxes, and it was so bloody hot outside.

The tightness in my stomach grew painful as a grey passenger van came across the bridge and stopped next to us. On the side of the van, there was a picture of a raven flying over the words, _Go Masters Academy Mavens!_

“This must be the shuttle to campus,” said Mateo.

We loaded my stuff into the back of the van. It smelled like sweaty teenage boys and sod, but in a bad way. When I hopped in, a stray mauve athletic sock caked with dry mud lay stiffly on the floor in front of my seat. I kicked it out the door. I didn’t care that somebody might have been missing it – it was offending my senses.

I opened the window and stuck my head out. The driver of the van didn’t seem to mind. What Mateo had called the Hudson River, churned under the bridge as we crossed, roiling in shades of neglected-fish-tank-green and sludgy brown. The thought of swimming from the island to the riverbank was not appealing.

Once on the island, we were met by some serious iron gates. I assessed the spaces between the metal bars for their suitability as a future escape route. I probably could’ve just barely squeezed through a month ago, but not after my whirlwind romance with pizza. Jasmine had been right. Cheese was the devil, and the devil was delicious.

A brass plaque read:

_Masters Academy for Alternative Learning: A Cultivated Environment of Serenity._

If the sign could be believed, this place was probably going to be pretty chill. But I wouldn’t be fooled. Just because the sign promised serenity, didn’t mean it wasn’t a prison or a nuthouse. Schools always promised things they couldn’t effectively deliver. Although, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow certainly delivered on the promise of eternal misery and I had been lucky to escape that Catholic boarding school after only one term.

The driver pressed some buttons on the call box and the gates slowly opened. I was sorry I hadn’t taken note of the code.

As we passed through the gates, my mobile rang. I was shocked that I got cell service out here in the sticks. A picture of a foppish frog with a waistcoat and a top hat appeared on the screen, heralding that my father was ringing me. I let it ring two more times in my palm.

“If you don’t answer, he’ll just call me,” said Mateo, “and when he does, I’m going to tell him that his default picture on your phone is an amphibian.” It wasn’t really a threat. From the way his mouth quirked at the corner, I knew he was just as amused as I was.

I smirked at Mateo and accepted the call. “We just breached the castle wall and are advancing to the keep. Shall we raid the coffers first, or take prisoners?” I was attempting humor that time.

Mateo snickered.

Father didn’t think it was funny. He never thought I was funny. “I assume you found it alright, then?” he said.

I answered him in one dismissive breath. “Yeah found it talk to you later bye.”

As I pulled the mobile away from my ear to end the call, I heard him reprimanding me in French.

Mateo sighed. “Jules, I get that you’re mad at him. But he did this because it’s what’s best for you.”

I scoffed through my teeth and crossed my arms. “I’m being put into another detention center that just so happens to be conveniently located an hour away from your new job.”

“This place isn’t what you think it is,” Mateo assured me, “And we didn’t move to New York for my job. We moved so we could be close to you.”

I stared out the window, refusing to meet Mateo’s eyes.

He rested his hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “I mean it. We love you, bud.”

“Don’t touch me,” I murmured, then immediately regret being so unpleasant when I saw Mateo’s hurt expression. “Please,” I added softly, “I’m not in a good mood.”

Mateo’s mobile rang. The photo that came up on the screen was of my father and him, kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower.

“Babe, I’ll have Jules call you once he’s settled. We just got here. Give him a little space.”

Mateo said this as if he actually understood what I needed. If my father gave me any more space, I’d be in another part of the universe. Even though he didn’t like the idea of putting an ocean between us, it wasn’t because he enjoyed being close to me.

“I need some air. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” I unbuckled my seat belt and pushed open the van door.

Mateo frantically tapped the back of the driver’s seat. “Stop! Stop!”

The van was still rolling to a halt when my white Lacoste trainers hit the gravel. I knocked on the driver’s window and said, “Race you to the top. I’ll give you a head start.” Neither of us had any intention of racing. I lost sight of the van after it crested the hill.

The sound of the gravel under my feet made every step uphill feel more physically challenging. Huffing and sweating in my Gucci short-sleeved button-down, I reached a stone staircase off the side of the road that went all the way up to the school through overgrown terraced gardens.

I paused to catch my breath and considered the steepness of the staircase, regretting my rash decision to walk. As I looked up at the towering fortress, two large birds were circling in the sky, perhaps vultures searching for a carcass. Maybe I looked like a dying animal to them. I assured myself that there were no vultures in upstate New York, though I really had no bloody idea.

Just as I began my ascent, a small figure appeared at the top of the stairs. The figure stopped for a moment when they saw me, and then bounded down the steps.

When the figure reached me, I saw that she was a girl, with neat cornrows in her hair that culminated in an impressive pouf atop her head, tied together with a ribbon that was the exact shade of mauve as the words on the school van. She didn’t look old enough to be a high school student.

“You haven’t seen a little boy down there, by any chance?” she asked, just as out-of-breath as I was. “Seven years old. Approximately three feet tall, roughly fifty pounds. Looks like me. Last seen running in this general vicinity with binoculars.” From the way she was talking, I expected her to produce a police badge. She was kind of small for a corrections officer.

I shook my head.

“How about a _big_ boy? Sixteen years old. Just under six feet all, roughly a hundred-twenty pounds, looks nothing like me. Last seen accompanying the little one.”

I shook my head again and wondered why there were such young children at a boarding school for teenagers. Or a juvenile detention center. Or a mental institution. Whatever this place was, it did not speak well for Masters Academy that one or more of their small charges was already missing even before the official start of term.

“Are you lost, sweetie?” I asked, crouching down to meet her striking eyes, which were Perrier bottle green with sunbursts of amber, the sort of unnerving eyes that pierced through you, right down to the place where you kept your secrets. A disdained furrow formed between her brows.

“No, I am not _lost_ ,” she scoffed haughtily, “And my name’s not _sweetie_. I do not appreciate you patronizing me.”

Damn. How old was this kid? Twelve going on twenty-two? I backed off and choked out weakly, “I wasn’t--”

“If I’d been a boy, you wouldn’t have asked me if I’m lost. And you wouldn’t have called me _sweetie._ ”

I glanced sideways, thought about it, and inwardly agreed, silently cursing my gender bias, blindsided by the fact that a small tween had called me out.

“Anyway,” she said with a dismissive sigh, “if you do see them, tell them I’m done playing hide and seek. I have more important things to do.” She turned swiftly on the heels of her patent leather Mary Jane’s and huffed it back up the stairs.

Hide and seek? This couldn’t have been a detention center or a mental institution if they allowed the kids to roam freely, playing hide and seek.

I caught up with her, concerned that there was a small boy hiding down a well or something. “Erm, you can’t just end a game of hide-and-seek like that. You’re basically just leaving the other players hanging.”

The girl paused contemplatively with a finger on her dimpled chin. “You’re right.” Then she extended a small hand for me to shake, which I took tentatively. “Cleo Tandy-Walker. You’re new here. I need to find these jerks. And you need a tour of the campus. Kill two birds with one stone?”

I glanced up at the two birds still circling above. Two birds who would’ve probably ripped Cherie to pieces if given the chance.

A tour didn’t sound too bad. I could catalogue all the possible escape routes on campus for future use.

I fixated on the first bit of information that had come out of the girl’s mouth. “Tandy-Walker? As in…?”

The Freaking President of The United States of America?

“Yes, my mother is _that_ Mrs. Tandy-Walker,” she said with a deep, weary sigh that made her shoulders sag.

I could relate. I didn’t like living in the shadow of a surname that preceded me either.

“I’m Jules.”

Just Jules _._ Not Julien Dufour; son of the former super model trust fund brat, the notorious Sebastien Dufour, once heir to the Dufour fashion publishing dynasty.

“Julien Dufour. Yes, I figured as much,” she said, not sounding moved at all, in any direction, by who I was. It was a relief.

Also a relief, was the assumption that the President deemed this school suitable for her daughter. Maybe this wasjust another posh boarding school after all. Finding solace in that realization said something about my shifting priorities.

I suddenly remembered that Mateo was waiting for me at the top. “Erm, I sort of just got here,” I said, spreading out the words, trying not to offend her further while attempting to wheedle my way out of playing hide-and-find, “And I think I have to visit the headmaster’s office before anything else.”

“Of course. We’ll start there,” she said, resolutely pointing in what I assumed was the direction of the headmaster’s office, giving me no choice but to follow.

Though the outside of the building looked like a dreary castle fortress, the inside had the feel of an old hospital, with mint green tile on the walls and linoleum floors, renewing my suspicion that Masters Academy was a mental institution masquerading as a school. I noted all my exit routes, in case I needed to escape the threat of a straight jacket.

Upon entering the headmaster’s office, the tightness in the back of my neck loosened with the soft sound of tranquil jazz music playing on an old CD player. The office resembled a drawing room of a posh home, with overstuffed velvet arm chairs and floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows that scattered rainbows on the plush carpet. It was too inviting to be the command center of a prison or a mental institution – the sort of place to take tea, not punishment.

Behind an antique writing desk, sat an old gentleman with curly salt-and-pepper hair, nodding his head to the music. _Dr. Tandy?_

If I hadn’t already been tipped off by the sign at the gates, this would have been the first red flag to warn me that things were about to get weird.

“And so, it begins,” Lyric Tandy said cheerily, smiling and emoting enthusiastically with his hands. “It’s going to be a great year, Cloelia. I can feel it. First of the new bunch has arrived, I see.”

Rather than letting me speak for myself, Cleo answered. “Grandpa, this is Julien Dufour.” _Wait. What? Grandpa?_ She turned to me and said, “Jules, this is Headmaster Lyric Tandy. You can call him Dr. Tandy.”

Stunned, I spoke slowly. “Yeah. We’ve met.”

“Good to see you again, Jules.” Dr. Tandy gestured welcomingly, his palms open and his arms stretching toward me, almost like he was inviting me to hug him.

Was that what they did in America? As far as I’d been taught, the only acceptable way to greet a headmaster was to stand with my hands held behind my back and my head tilted down in deference. Not that I was ever one to be subservient to school faculty. But still. Hugging a headmaster just seemed weird. Hugging my youth counselor seemed even weirder. The fact that Dr. Tandy was one in the same, plus the father of the current United States President, was weird as fuck.

I approached his desk and stood anxiously before him, unable to find the proper action for my hands, motioning through all of the options in a series of half-executed gestures from waving awkwardly, to offering a handshake, to scratching behind my ear, before retreating into the pockets of my jeans.

“I’m glad you’re here Jules. I hope you’ll find that Masters Academy is the right fit for you,” said Dr. Tandy.

Schools typically talked about whether _I_ was right for _them_ , not the other way around. And usually, the discussion was in the context of me _not_ being right for them.

“You are so very special, with so much potential,” said Dr. Tandy. From the soft, insistent tone of his voice, I could almost believe it. He seemed damn well convinced, but there was no way he could’ve made that assessment based on my school records. Never mind my arrest record.

I glanced at Cleo for any indication that this was the line Dr. Tandy fed everyone at the school. She was staring at me with her lips pursed, an eyebrow raised, and her arms folded over her chest, unconvinced of my potential. I didn’t blame her.

What were the other students like, if the school employed a social worker as a headmaster, who went around the world to recruit juvenile delinquents?

“You are more powerful than you know, Jules,” said Dr. Tandy, “It is our duty here at Masters to provide a safe, serene learning environment in which your potential can be cultivated, whether you’re here for our diversion program, or for a top notch high school education. All I ask of you, as a member of our community, is to be mindful of the sense of serenity we try to maintain, and to do your best to contribute to it – not detract from it. Do you think you can do that, Jules?”

“Erm… what?” He sort of lost me after, _you are more powerful than you know, Jules_.

“Serenity, Jules,” said Cleo with an impatient sigh, “Just say, _yes sir,_ so we can get on with your tour.”

But I was never one to just blindly say, _yes sir_.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Dr. Tandy, with a casual, dismissive gesture. “You’ll get it eventually. I’m confident of that. You’re a good kid.”

Yeah. No clue how he came to that conclusion, especially since he was aware of the criminal charges against me. Nothing in my previous school records could have possibly said, _Julien Dufour: Good kid. Has potential. No need to worry about him_.

After glancing warily at Cleo, I leaned forward and asked in a hushed voice, “When do I start my diversion program?” I was eager to get it over with.

Dr. Tandy spoke quietly. “It’s more of an immersive experience than a crime diversion program. In time, you’ll see that simply being here, absorbing our school culture, is reformative.”

 _Right…_ I nodded enthusiastically, even though I was highly skeptical this would guarantee I’d never be behind bars again. It had to be better than spending a hundred hours cleaning up rubbish from the park while wearing an orange jumpsuit.

Dr. Tandy stood up, and I took that to mean I was dismissed. “I’m pleased you’ve joined our school community, Jules. Our caretaker, Carlos, is helping Mateo find your dorm room. You can help him load in your things through the carport entrance of the Manor.”

“I’ll show him where that is, Grandpa,” said Cleo.

Ugh, of course she would. I turned to leave and, once I was out of earshot of both Dr. Tandy and Cleo, lamented under my breath, “Bugger me. What is this place?”

Dr. Tandy, never deviating from his mellow, friendly voice, said, “We try not to use that kind of language here when we’re feeling strong emotions, Jules. I suggest taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling out of your mouth. It really does wonders for letting go of negative energy.”

Surprised that the old man had such good hearing, I apologized and waited for Cleo in the doorway.

“Find your brothers, yet?” Dr. Tandy asked her. His eyes knowingly moved toward a nearby wingback armchair.

Cleo pounced behind the chair and growled, “Willoughby!”

“Deep breath, Cloelia,” said Dr. Tandy, stifling a laugh.

A small boy popped out from behind the chair who indeed looked just like Cleo. He had an unusual laugh – it was expressive, but wispy and quiet.

Cleo’s hands moved quickly while she spoke, forming different shapes with her fingers. “That’s not fair. I checked here before. How am I supposed to find you, if you keep changing hiding spots in the middle of the game?” She was using sign language. “I don’t have time for this.”

Willoughby signed while making an effort to also speak. Though his words were pronounced hollowly, I could discern that he said something along the lines of, _you didn’t look hard enough._

“He’s been here the whole time, hun,” said Dr. Tandy, chuckling. I’d never met a headmaster who laughed. It was rather nice.

Cleo, however, wasn’t amused. “Our brother just dumped you here in the middle of the game? Nice.”

“He was getting hungry,” Dr. Tandy explained, “I sent your big brother to the kitchen to scrounge up something for us to eat. After you show Jules to his room, come back and we’ll have some lunch.”

Cleo took me through the castle, which she called the Citadel, passing by classrooms and lockers, and posters advertising after-school clubs, then led me out to a massive football pitch – excuse me, _soccer field_. It all looked so… _normal_.

“Okay, I’m confused, Cleo. Is this a school or…?”

She scrunched up her face at me like I was stupid. “Or what? It’s a school, Julien. What did you expect?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Something more… clinical? Institutional?”

Cleo scoffed. “Just because we’re a neurodiverse academy? The alternative learners deserve a normal school environment just as much as the traditional learners.”

“So, there’s a section for the normal kids and the… not normal kids?” I asked.

“No, this is an integrated school.” She looked at me like I was the worst. “And you really should transition away from making distinctions between _normal_ and _not normal_. It’s insensitive.”

I bristled. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. _I’m_ not normal.”

“How would you feel if you, being neurodivergent, were separated from the neurotypical kids? Didn’t you come here to _avoid_ being isolated from the rest of society?” She gave me a knowing look. I guessed that Dr. Tandy and I hadn’t been quiet enough when we discussed my crime diversion program.

“Yeah. About that. Please don’t tell anyone why I’m here.”

“Of course. We have a strict privacy policy about underage offenders,” she explained, then continued the tour without missing a beat.

In the five minutes it took us to traverse the field, Cleo pointed out various features of campus, few of which registered in my brain, other than the colossal clock tower. 

Cleo told me it was named Bird Watch Tower, after the four bronze bird statues at the base of the clock that stood sentinel in each direction. The raven, the school mascot, faced East toward the center of the town of Ravensdale. The eagle faced West, toward the river. The owl faced North, and the heron faced South. All of their metal eyes gleamed in the sun and seemed to wink down at me as I walked past.

On the other side of the pitch, loomed a mansion made of roughly cut stone blocks, which Cleo called the Manor. I expected it to be dark and dusty inside, but I found myself in a bright place where geometric beveled glass windows let sunlight flood the halls. The walls were white plaster, and gnarled wood beams traversed the ceiling. The hardwood floors were polished to a reflective gleam, and I ached to race down the long corridor wearing slippery socks. I put it on my list of things I had to accomplish before December, though it would probably upset the environment of serenity.

Something compelled me to look over my shoulder, and I noticed a woman walking several paces behind us who hadn’t been there before. She was wearing a charcoal suit, reflective aviator sunglasses, and a two-way radio earpiece. Secret Service?

I must have been staring, because Cleo explained, “That’s Ms. Falcon. Don’t mind her, and she won’t mind you.”

I gave Ms. Falcon a curt wave. “What’s up?”

Ms. Falcon was as unmoved as the birds on the clock tower.

“My brothers have security detail assigned to them too. He’s called Mr. Hawk. Obviously, they’re code names. They only hover this close when there are random adults on campus. Most of the time, they give us space.”

We ran into one of those random adults down the corridor. It was Mateo, who was wheeling a luggage porter loaded with my things.

“Made a friend already? That’s awesome, buddy,” Mateo remarked, glancing hopefully between me and the small person in my presence, flinching when he saw the severe Secret Service woman lurking nearby.

“She’s just showing me where the dorms are,” I said, gesturing at Cleo, “I don’t even know her.” I wouldn’t give Mateo anything positive to report back to my father.

Anyway, having just met her ten minutes ago, Cleo hardly qualified as a friend. But she seemed a little hurt by what I’d told Mateo.

Realizing that I had probably been unkind, I turned to her and said, “Maybe we can catch up later. You can show me the rest of the school.” I wasn’t particularly interested in resuming the tour, but I knew Mateo would have prompted me to ask.

Like it was already a given, but not in a cordial way, she said, “Yeah of course.” Then she added, “FYI, your roommate is Alex. His side of the room is already set up.”

Bloody hell, this girl seemed to know everything about me – my name, my roommate, maybe even my schedule of lessons and my shoe size. She shouldn’t have been privy to these details, even if she was the headmaster’s granddaughter.

“Alex leaves his things in his room over the summer because he doesn’t come home much,” she explained, even though I hadn’t asked and it was none of my business. “So don’t touch or move anything.”

“Obviously,” I drawled, even though I was absolutely going to touch my phantom roommate’s stuff.

“When you’re ready for the rest of the tour, come find me in my townhouse. It’s in the turret. You can access it from the staff apartments on the third floor _._ ” It was more of a command than an invitation.

“Wait. You live here? Why not at…”

“The White House?” she scoffed. “Mother insists my brothers and I are better off here.” She didn’t seem to agree. “More freedom.” Then she was off without so much as a _see you later_ , as the severe Secret Service woman followed in her wake.

After Cleo was out of earshot, Mateo looked at me quizzically. “Was that…?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Your President’s daughter.” Influential mum or not, Cleo was a small authoritarian, and I didn’t do well with authority figures, no matter how diminutive.

Mateo appeared impressed. “I’d make friends with her if I were you.”

“Why make friends at all? I’m not going to be here that long.”

Mateo shook his head and pressed his lips into a skeptical line. “You don’t fool me, Jules. I played the part of the lone wolf when I was your age, and you are not that kind of kid.”

“Whatever,” I huffed, “I collect allies and gossip networks and people who amuse me. I guess you call them _friends_.” I put _friends_ in air quotes.

“Whatever you call them, you’re going to need them. And you could use a little help.” He handed me a stack of vinyl that had been carefully selected from my record collection at home. “Let’s set up your stereo.”

My anachronistic love of classic rock, and the archaic way I preferred to listen to it, never made me any friends the way Mateo thought it should. Why would I expect things to be different here? When I surrounded myself with music, _good_ music, the sort of high fidelity sounds that only came from vinyl, I could drown out the bullshit around me. Good music never let me down the way people always did.

While flipping through the stack of records to make sure my favorites were in the pile, I pulled out an album I didn’t recognize. _Dreamboat Annie_ by Heart.

“I found that when I was packing up our flat in London,” said Mateo. “It was Vic’s.”

I bristled at the mention of my mother’s name. It didn’t inspire nostalgia.

“I didn’t know she was into classic rock,” I mumbled.

“She was into all kinds of music.” He smiled wistfully.

I really didn’t want to reminisce about my mum, so I made an excuse to get Mateo to leave. “I’ve got to go meet up with Cleo.”

He ruffled my hair and hesitated before leaving me. I could tell he wanted to give me a hug, but I kept my arms crossed “Don’t forget to visit the nurse’s office every day to take your meds. And call your father sooner than later.”

After he was gone, I regretted not hugging him. I missed him already.

 _What the hell am I doing here?_ I would have thrown myself on my bed with dramatic ennui, but the mattress was bare, and I didn’t feel like unearthing my sheets. I wasn’t keen on unpacking.

Instead, I took to investigating my absent roommate, in an attempt to deduce his personality from his possessions.

The room was Spartan, not that I was expecting anything posh. Two narrow beds, two narrow desks, and two narrow armoires, set up on opposite walls with barely two strides between. The metal headboard of each bed flanked the room’s only window, which overlooked the woods.

There were band posters on the walls on Alex’s side of the room. _Panic! At The Disco, Imagine Dragons, Twenty-One Pilots_. Mainstream guitar-based music. I could work with that.

Instant photo prints cluttered a cork board above his desk. I had no way of knowing who Alex was in the pictures, or if he was even in the pictures at all. There were two boys who appeared in most of the photos, sometimes together with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders. A boy with long blond hair seemed to have an aversion to facing the camera. A boy with messy black hair, slender eyes, and an open-mouthed smile, had an apparent habit of cheesing too hard at the camera.

A framed photo was perched on a shelf above Alex’s desk, featuring a man and a woman posing in white military uniforms. I lifted the frame and studied the picture more closely, comparing it to the photos on the cork board. The black-haired boy had the same slender, smiling eyes and tawny brown skin as the woman in the photo.

I was mildly pleased about the possibility that my roommate was half Asian, just like me. Not that I ever _felt_ Asian at all, if one could _feel_ their ethnicity. It simply would’ve been nice to _not_ be the only racially ambiguous kid at school for once.

Superficially, the boy bore no resemblance to the military man in the photo with fair skin and tightly curled hair, but upon more careful inspection, their faces were the same shape, particularly the dimpled chin. The man looked familiar to me, though I could not place him.

The top of Alex’s dresser was crowded with trophies and framed medals. I picked up each one and read their inscriptions. There were awards for soccer, baseball, basketball, track. It was clear that my roommate was a sporty overachiever. Probably not a criminal.

An umbrella holder wedged in the corner held various sporting implements – a baseball bat, a hockey thing. I pulled out an odd stick with a net on the end of it, trying to discern what it was for. After swishing it around and testing the weight of it in my hands, I decided it was too heavy to be something used for fishing or catching butterflies.

The door opened, and in came the black-haired boy. He appeared much older than in the pictures, with more defined cheekbones and neater hair. I froze, realizing that I’d been caught touching my roommate’s stuff.

“Oh, hey,” I greeted him awkwardly, unsure what to do with the weird stick-net thing in my hands.

“Oh, _hey_!” he responded in kind, but with more of a surprised inflection. I wasn’t sure if it had been a bad _hey_ , as in, _hey, you’re touching my stuff,_ or if it was a friendly greeting.

I returned the stick to its proper place and stuttered an apology.

“No worries, bro. Do you play lacrosse?” he asked with a genuinely curious upward intonation in his voice. “I’m gonna try out for the varsity team this year.”

I shook my head. I didn’t even know what a varsity team did. Was lacrosse a proper sport? Or was it something like curling? I imagined a bunch of boys aggressively swatting at butterflies with their stick nets.

“I’m Alexander, by the way… Alex,” he said, offering a hand for me to shake. “I’m your roommate.”

If I had answered, _I know_ , it would’ve sounded creepy. If I had answered, _obviously_ , I would’ve sounded like a dick. So I didn’t.

Cautiously, I gave him my hand, and he squeezed it hard before pulling me in for a bro tap on my shoulder. It was the type of assertively male American greeting that made me uncomfortable because I was neither assertively male nor American.

I took a step back and muttered, “Charmed,” feeling anything but. “I’m Julien... Jules.”

Alex eyed me curiously. I wondered if he was trying to make sense of my outfit. It was fabulous, but maybe a bit loud in comparison to his own aesthetic (i.e., no style to speak of).

“Please don’t be offended by this if you’re not, but are you, like…”

In my head, I ran through how this conversation would probably go. _Are you, like… gay? Because I’m so not cool sharing a room with you if you are. Nothing against gay people, it’s just… you know. Awkward._

“Are you, like, part Asian or something?” he asked with the same hopeful upswing of his voice he’d used when querying me about lacrosse.

I thought broaching the gay thing would be annoying. This was perhaps more touchy.

I nodded and smiled tightly. It always felt like a lie, even though it was completely true. “Filipino. Mum’s side.”

Alex beamed and pressed his hand to his chest, as if he’d found his long lost cousin. “Dude! Me too!”

“What gave it away? Couldn’t have been my hair,” I joked dryly, pushing back my frizzy bleach blond fringe.

Even though I wasn’t really trying to be funny, Alex chuckled. “Takes one to know one,” he said, which implied that Asians could somehow sniff each other out even when the identifying physical traits were blurred by other genes.

I guess it was true. Even without seeing the photo of his mother, I could recognize something vaguely South East Asian about Alex.

I couldn’t get excited by this thing we had in common, because I knew what would inevitably come next.

Alex pointed at me. “Are you a _pancit canton_ kind of guy or a _pancit bihon_ kind of guy? I’m totally team _pancit canton_ all the way _._ ”

“Noodles, yeah? I don’t know the difference, to be honest,” I admitted, feeling like a complete fraud. Culturally, I was as Filipino as the Queen of England.

“Your mom not much of a cook?”

“She’s dead,” I said, as casually as one can, which succinctly explained my detachment from Filipino culture. “Passed away when I was little. I never really knew her. Or her family.”

“Oh. Gosh. Sorry, bro.” Alex sounded genuinely apologetic, the buoyancy of his voice sinking, “I haven’t seen my mom in a long time. She’s deployed in South Korea. U.S. Navy. She and my dad aren’t together anymore. I know it’s not the same, but…” He flipped his mood like a switch and I appreciated the quick change of subject. “Do you play any sports?”

I snorted. “No. Not unless you consider marathon Netflix binge-watching a sport. If so, I am the reigning champion.”

He laughed, and his eyes smiled the way they did in his pictures. I decided I liked it.

I liked it quite a lot.


	5. Chapter 5

One of the most dreadful challenges of any new school experience was open seating in the dining hall. I much preferred the ease of assigned seating, even if there was the potential of getting stuck with people I didn’t like.

I had barely dipped my toe into uncharted waters, when Cleo waved me over. “Jules! Come sit with us!”

Part of me wanted to pass. I wasn’t sure if I should align myself with the pre-teen commander-in-chief before I had a chance to assess my other prospects. But sitting with Cleo meant that I wouldn’t otherwise have to navigate through a completely new social hierarchy on my first night.

Familiar faces sat at the small laminated table where Cleo was holding court.

“Sit there, Jules,” Cleo pointed to the spot where Willoughby was already sitting. “Move over, Willy. Let your brother get to know his new roommate.”

_His brother? Willoughby’s brother was…_

“I see you’ve already met my sister,” Alex said fondly, “I’m not surprised.” _Cleo was his sister?_

I was immobilized for a good long minute, jaw slightly agape, eyes screwed up in confusion. The resemblance between Willoughby and Cleo was quite clear. But _Alex_ …? Maybe the chin? That little dimple in Alex’s chin was also on Will’s and Cleo’s.

“Close your mouth, Jules,” Cleo scolded, “It won’t help you come to the right conclusion any faster.”

Alex pat the spot next to him on the bench and chuckled, “Sit down, bro. I’ll explain.”

I sat tentatively, suddenly feeling like I was intruding on this neat little family unit.

“My parents divorced when I was little,” said Alex, “My dad got married again years later.”

“So the President is your stepmother,” I said, pointing to Alex.

“Melody is _practically_ my mom,” said Alex, “I see her more that I see my actual mom.”

I could relate. Mateo was _practically_ my dad. But not because my actual dad wasn’t around.

“So, wait… Who’s your dad, then? The First Gentleman?”

Alex smiled proudly. “Yep. That’s our dad. Robert Walker.”

Oh so _that’s_ why the Navy bloke’s photo on Alex’s dresser looked so familiar! I’d seen a much older version of him on the news, waving from the White House lawn next to the President.

I was sitting with American royalty. Living with American royalty. The closest thing that America had to a prince was my roommate.

The younger prince was currently picking his nose at the dinner table. Okay, so maybe not quite royal material. But still.

Alex sighed heavily, forming the words in sign language for Will as he spoke, “Dude. I just washed your hands.” He plucked a sanitizing hand wipe from a large plastic tub and scrubbed Will’s grubby little fingers with the intensity of a neurotic nanny. “Cleo, did you wash your hands?”

“Always,” she said with a superior snort.

She explained that meals were served family style, with communal bowls on the tables. It was help-yourself and all-you-can-eat, except for dessert.

“Having clean hands at mealtimes is essential to preventing school-wide outbreaks of illness,” she said, signing something to Will while giving him the Evil Eye for serving himself a chicken leg with his bare hands instead of using utensils.

“Dude, remember when the entire school had a stomach bug and classes were cancelled for three days?” Alex said, as if skiving off lessons was the worst torture ever.

“I’d rather not think about that right before I eat, thanks,” grumbled Cleo.

Willoughby signed something near his nose, giggling shyly. Both Cleo and Alex gave him a warning look.

Cleo translated. “Willy recalls that the school smelled like rotten farts during that outbreak.”

Willoughby continued to giggle, looking quite pleased to have gotten a rise out of his elders.

I made a vow, right then and there, to carry a bottle of hand sanitizer in my pocket at all times. “I’ll take one of those, Alex, if you don’t mind,” I said, gesturing at his tub of wipes. “So Headmaster Tandy is your grandfather too?” I asked.

“No, he’s mine and Willoughby’s,” said Cleo.

“I’m horrible with spatial relations, and even worse with family relations. I need a visual.”

Cleo took it upon herself to draw the extended family tree for both the Tandy side and the Walker side. She gave me a history of how Dr. Viola Tandy founded the school, and how she started a legacy fund so that all the kids in the family could attend Masters Academy for free. Both of Cleo’s parents were alumni.

Now it made a little more sense why my youth counselor was the headmaster, and why the President sent her kids here. It was the Tandy family’s school.

#

A three note chime sounded over the din in the hall, which alerted everyone to quiet down.

“Namaste, Masters Academy learners,” came a voice from a public address system.

What an odd way to greet a bunch of boarding school kids. The source of the voice was a woman standing at the staff table, wearing a sari, holding a wireless microphone.

“I’m Dr. Shivani Gupta, school psychiatrist, therapist, tai chi master, kyudo sensei, and yoga instructor. Allow me to give a warm welcome to those joining us for the first time, and of course, blessings to those returning.” She spoke like a serene California girl, with drawn out vowels, and at the same time, like an extremely positive guru, with an upwards tonal swing at the end of each slowly annunciated phrase, leaving her sentences open as if they were transcendental questions. “For the newcomers, I’d just like to explain what we do at the start of dinner.”

“We wash our hands!” Cleo shouted.

Dr. Gupta gave a polite chuckle. “Yes, of course, Miss Cleo, we wash our hands. But also, we pause for a moment of silent reflection. For some of us, this means prayer. For some of us, this means quiet gratitude. And for others, it means managing our impulses for ten seconds. I invite you to join me in silent reflection now.”

The room fell quiet for the most part, except where controlling one’s impulses appeared challenging due to _Issues_ , with a capital _I_. It was then that I remembered that _I_ was one of those kids with Issues, and for the first time, I was far from the only one _._ I hadn’t yet decided if I was comforted by that fact or not.

Headmaster Tandy, who was seated at the staff table, wasn’t coming down hard on the outbursts. In my previous schools, kids would have been scolded harshly for making any kind of noise when grace was being said at the dinner table.

I became preoccupied with looking at everything going on around me, which to most people would have seemed like not much of anything was happening at all. Some kids had their heads bowed or their hands held in prayer. Others sat still with their eyes closed and their hands folded on the table. And some were doing exactly what I was doing, which was quietly surveying the room.

The three-toned chime sounded again at the end of ten seconds, before I had the chance to do any sort of reflection.

“Hail Satan, Praise Voldemort, let’s eat,” I said, clapping my hands together.

Alex snickered at my irreverence. I liked making him laugh, so I kept finding ways to do it throughout dinner. It wasn’t hard. Maybe Alex was an easily amused person. Or maybe he was starving for humor after living in a _cultivated environment of serenity_.

He stopped laughing when a boy with long blond hair came up to the table and stood directly behind him with no regard for personal space.

“I got you an extra ice cream sandwich, Alex,” he said, reaching over Alex’s shoulder with the dessert in hand.

Alex turned around and spoke kindly. “That’s so nice of you, Ryan, but I’m going for the varsity lacrosse team this year and I want to be in top shape.”

_Don’t tell me Alex is a salad-eater._

I realized that Ryan was the same blond haired boy in the photos on Alex’s cork board, but he was older now and his hair was _proper_ long, down to his shoulders. He continued to hold the ice cream sandwich in front of Alex, either not taking _no_ for an answer, or not realizing that Alex had said _no_ in a nice way.

“I’m off sugar,” Alex tried to explain.

“But I got it just for you. Corwin wasn’t going to give it to me because I’m lactose intolerant, but I told him it would go to waste if I didn’t give you an extra. I’ve done dessert duty on ice cream sandwich day and I know there are twenty four in a box, seventeen boxes in the coolers, which means one ice cream for each of the four-hundred-and-eight students and staff, minus two because me and Corwin are lactose intolerant, minus one because Katrina Diaz is diabetic. That’s three extra.”

_Ryan_ was extra.

“I’ll take it, Ry,” said Cleo.

“It’s for Alex. I want Alex to have it,” Ryan insisted.

“It’s okay, Ryan. Cleo can have it,” said Alex.

Ryan’s expression fell. “But I got it for you.”

“He doesn’t bloody want it,” I grumbled, “Just give the damn thing to Cleo, for Christ’s sake.”

Ryan sadly laid the ice cream sandwich in front of Cleo and shrank away dejectedly, fit to cry as he sulked off. Alex followed him.

An intimidatingly stylish girl approached me, her black sundress billowing from her long frame as she descended gracefully, like curling black smoke, upon Alex’s vacated seat. She was wearing a wide brimmed black hat and sunglasses. When she flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder with lithe, bejeweled fingers, I was immediately reminded of Jasmine. My stomach knotted. Still, I couldn’t help admiring how she took full advantage of the school’s relaxation of the uniform policy on weekends.

“Good job, New Boy,” the girl congratulated me sarcastically. She spoke with a wispy, luscious drawl that made her sound like a bored Marilyn Monroe. Or a high Marilyn Monroe. Maybe both. “You just made Ryan Quinn cry. You’ve only been here, what, half a day?”

“Bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” I remarked in regards to Ryan’s reaction. What kind of normal person insists on giving away ice cream and then cries when it doesn’t go to the intended recipient?

“You have to be gentle with Ryan,” said Goth Marilyn, “He’s particularly sensitive. He has _special needs_.”

I felt like an arsehole. An arsehole who also had _special needs_.

“Don’t we all have special needs here?” I said flippantly in a weak attempt to make light of my mistake.

“I thought I explained this to you already,” said Cleo, flying into a lecture, “Masters Academy is an integrated, neurologically diverse learning environment that services students of all abilities, including those who are autistic.” She was reciting the recruiting propaganda to me again. “Some of us are traditional learners like me and Alex, though I have a tutor because I’m technically not old enough for high school. Some of us are alternative learners like Ryan and Willoughby.”

“And some of us just never learn,” said Goth Marilyn. She leaned forward and rested her chin on the silver and amethyst baubles adorning her knuckles. I couldn’t see her eyes through her sunglasses, but I could tell that she was about to throw some serious shade at me. “I heard you got expelled from school in England.”

I narrowed my eyes at Cleo. She glanced away innocently.

“Tell me, New Boy, was it because you couldn’t help being a smartass?” Goth Marilyn cocked her head to the side and pretended to ponder, “Or maybe it was for being a dumbass?”

_Ouch._ Girl could read me.

“It was for being a badass. They couldn’t handle all of _this_ ,” I gestured flamboyantly at my fabulous self.

Perhaps I had impressed her, or at the very least redeemed myself in her eyes, because Goth Marilyn’s oxblood red lips quirked into an amused smirk. “You are exactly how I imagined you would be, Julien Dufour.”

_Oh god, here we go…_ I had wondered how long it would take before the first wanker got on me for my surname and for what it implied. It took six hours. Not bad, actually. At Bridgehampton, it happened the moment I had set foot on campus.

“And how did you imagine me?” I asked, replicating her inquisitive drawl, mirroring her pose, both of us poised for a face-off of wits.

“Gay as fuck and anything but dull.” She gifted me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Don’t disappoint me Julien. I’ve been dying for some entertainment around here.”

I straightened in my seat and frowned. I didn’t fancy becoming another glittering disposable accessory to adorn her fingers. I wouldn’t fall into the role of a pretty girl’s gay mascot ever again.

“If you’ll excuse me, my ice cream is melting,” I said shortly, hoping she’d go away.

“Don’t let me stop you. These are the best.” She reached for Ryan’s extra ice cream sandwich. “Want to split that with me, Cleo? I’ll do your hair tomorrow.” She wasn’t going away.

Cleo narrowed her eyes. “What kind of trade is that? You always do my hair.” She gave Goth Marilyn half of the ice cream anyway.

I ate my ice cream sandwich while watching Alex comforting Ryan at another table. Alex had his arm over Ryan’s shoulders. He wiped a tear from Ryan’s face with his thumb. It was such a tender gesture – one I would never have thought a guy like Alex would exhibit in public. I had to admire a bloke who could be so openly compassionate with a friend who was also a bloke.

Were they perhaps more than friends? Though Alex hadn’t struck me as anything but hetero, one never really knows.

“Are they a thing?” I gestured subtly at the two boys.

Goth Marilyn gave a mirthless chuckle. “Alex and Ryan? God, no.”

“Not _yet_ ,” said Cleo, her mouth twisting into a knowing smirk.

“Maybe not ever,” snipped Goth Marilyn, pouting prettily. I guessed that she was not happy about the prospect of the two boys getting together.

“Ryan has two more years to try,” said Cleo, “Did you know he’s not graduating with you in June? He got himself held back. I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose so he could spend another year with Alex.”

“Doesn’t look like he had to try very hard to get held back.”

As soon as the words escaped my brain, I regretted speaking them, as was often the case when I opened my mouth. I didn’t actually think he looked stupid, but my compulsion to be one of the Mean Girls was still strong and I cursed the influence that Jasmine still had on me.

“Lovely,” said Goth Marilyn.

“You’re kind of a jerk,” said Cleo.

Both of them shook their heads at me, frowning with disapproval.

I shrank in my seat, wishing I could melt into it like soft ice cream. I had managed to antagonize my roommate’s sister and two perfect strangers on my first day. My lack of filter was already working against me at this school. Cleo would probably tell Alex what an arsehole I was, and then he’d not be so keen on being friends.

At least Willoughby didn’t hate me. Yet. Maybe he could be convinced to like me. Or bribed.

I licked the bits of chocolate biscuit left on my fingers from the ice cream sandwich, and made my way back to the dessert station. I walked right up to the boy on dessert duty and said, “Hi. Ryan told me you’ve got an extra ice cream.”

The boy looked at me blankly. “And?”

“Maybe you’d like to give it to me,” I suggested.

“Who are you?” he asked. It sounded more like, _who the hell do you think you are?_

“Doesn’t matter who I am. It only matters that _that_ little boy over there could use a little extra love.” I pointed at the table where Willoughby still sat, finishing his ice cream while Cleo cringed at the mess he was making of his hands. “He was missing for hours this morning, did you hear? Cleo and Alex were frantic looking for him. Must have been so traumatic.”

The boy sighed deeply, relenting. He opened the cooler and took out an ice cream sandwich. “I’m watching you,” he said as he handed it to me.

I hurried back to the table and presented my bequest. “Behold, young master.”

Willoughby’s face lit up. He touched the tips of his fingers to his chin and moved his hand toward me, offering what must have been gratitude in ASL. Goth Marilyn smirked, seeing right through me.

“Alex won’t be happy,” Cleo grumbled, “It’s going to be hell trying to get Willy ready for bed all hyped up on sugar.”

_Face, meet palm._

“Oh, erm, oops. My bad,” I apologized meekly. “Maybe I can help Alex, since it’s sort of my fault the tyke’s all sugared up.”

“Help me with what?” Alex said, squeezing back into his seat, forcing me to sit uncomfortably close to Goth Marilyn.

“I sort of got your little brother all sugared up,” I admitted, “So I’ll help you settle him down later.”

Alex smiled. “Sweet. Literally.” We both giggled.

I couldn’t see what was going on behind Goth Marilyn’s sunglasses, but I could guess from her mannerisms that she was rolling her eyes.

“Thanks bro, I appreciate it,” said Alex.

_Bugger._ I had zero babysitting experience. What had I just volunteered for?

Alex turned to Goth Marilyn. “You introduce yourself to my roommate yet?”

“Not exactly,” she drawled.

“Rude,” Alex chided her jokingly.

The girl smirked. “A lady does not introduce herself, Alexander. She is properly introduced.”

She gracefully extended her hand to me like a queen requiring her subject to kiss the royal jewels.

Alex played along. “May I present to you, her royal highness, and I do mean _high,_ Miss Sabrina.”

“Don’t half-ass it. The whole thing, Alexander.”

Alex rolled his eyes and rushed through the introduction, looking embarrassed to be placating her like this. “May I present to you, Miss Sabrina Cesarina Guadalupe Salazar.”

Sabrina held her pose expectantly, her ebony lacquered nails sharpened to pointed tips. I didn’t care how long her name was; I wasn’t going to kiss her bloody hand or her arse.

“Don’t leave a girl hanging, Mr. Dufour,” said Sabrina.

“Oh, stop it,” Cleo chided the young woman as if she were a willful child. “Maybe Jules doesn’t do touching. We must respect people’s boundaries here at Masters Academy.”

Sabrina retracted her hand, demurring behind the wide brim of her hat.

I felt a little bad for embarrassing her, so I paid her a compliment. “I like your rings. Your whole look is fantastic,” I said, gesturing at her vaguely, “The hat, the shades. Very Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“That is a high compliment coming from a Dufour,” she said. _Shit_. She knew who I was. “But sadly, it’s more of a necessity than a look.”

“She has photophobia. Extreme light sensitivity,” Cleo explained, “Both artificial light and sunlight give her severe migraines.”

Sabrina’s gaze cut quickly to Cleo, clearly not pleased that the young girl was sharing personal information. Now I knew it wasn’t just _my_ business that Cleo was all up into.

“Is that a medical condition?” I hadn’t meant to wonder out loud, but again, my lack of filter got the best of me.

“It’s a side effect of my meds,” Sabrina admitted coolly as she smoothed down the seemingly endless length of her hair.

“Adderall? Ritalin? Dexedrine? Atomexitine?” I rattled off the meds in my own arsenal, past and present.

“Not those kinds of meds,” she murmured and glanced away from me. I knew better than to keep pushing.

“But there’s no excuse for your Goth aesthetic,” Alex jibed.

Smiling shark-like with her jeweled middle finger presented, Sabrina cooed melodically, “Fuck you too, darling.”

Alex giggled, immune to her attitude, perhaps enjoying the rise he got out of her.

“Anyway, I’d better go check on Ryan.” Sabrina sighed wearily as she ascended from the bench. “Adios, peasants.” She leaned down to exchange double air kisses with Alex. “We’ll catch up soon. I want to hear all about Lacrosse camp.” She turned slightly toward me and mouthed, _Not._

I snorted a laugh. She smirked.

As much as I didn’t want to like her, I couldn’t help myself. Sabrina had sass, and I liked a girl with sass.

#

The bedtime ritual for Willoughby began at eight, even though lights-out was at nine for him. God, I thought _I_ was hyperactive. He bounced off the walls, taking an inordinate amount of time to put on his pajamas and to brush his teeth, finding every distraction and detour along the way. While I soon got frustrated, Alex remained impressively patient with him.

Cleo and Will hopped into the same bed, though there were two in the room, so I took a seat on the other bed. Alex sat with his siblings and began to read _Goodnight Moon_.

“Not this again,” whined Cleo. Though I don’t know why she was complaining. She had brought a book of her own, titled, _Tuning Out the Noise: Techniques for Selective Focus_ , a weighty non-fiction tome. By _weighty_ , I mean the subject matter seemed heavy. The book itself was a neat little paperback.

Willoughby showed his equal displeasure for _Goodnight Moon_ in sign language.

Alex turned to me and said, “Willy wants to know if you’ve got any good stories.”

Caught off guard, I glanced at the ceiling with my mouth open. “Erm… Okay, let’s see… Once upon a time there were three little bears.”

“Were they blood-thirsty man-eating bears?” Cleo asked, translating her little brother’s signed question.

I narrowed my eyes at him, taken aback and slightly concerned. “No. They were cute and cuddly little bears.”

Willoughby signed the word that he also spoke, twisting his index finger along the side of his nose as if digging for a booger. “Boring.”

I threw my hands up. “Okay, then. Once upon a time, there were three massive, ugly, blood-thirsty, man-eating bears, cooking porridge made from the bones of their enemies and the tears of their widows.”

Alex laughed as he signed my words for Will. Will gave me two thumbs up and nodded with approval.

I pulled more details out of my arse, weaving a gruesome tale of gore and horror, much to the delight of the two young children. And as Alex laughed, I thought to myself, _shit I could do this all night._

“…And that’s why you should never underestimate a little blond girl if you’re a bear. She just might pluck your eyeballs out and turn them into earrings. The end.”

My audience clapped and I took a bow. Even Cleo was impressed.

“You’re good at this,” said Alex, “I’m guessing you have little brothers or sisters.”

“Nope. I’m just sick in the head.”

Alex snorted.

“Alex, tell us the one about the kids who haunt the school,” said Cleo.

Alex was good at telling ghost stories. He even used dramatically emotive sign language for Willoughby. Of course, being creepy little children, Cleo and Will ate up the ghastly tale like a proper bedtime story.

I thought Alex had made it all up. But as we walked back down from the headmaster’s townhouse through the empty, dimly lit corridor, Alex told me the story was true. He was dead serious.

This very island was home to a children’s mental institution and orphanage from the late eighteen hundreds to the nineteen thirties. The Citadel was the asylum. The Manor was where the staff and some of the orphans lived.

Viola Tandy was a young medical student training under the head doctor. She was appalled by the way that the mentally ill children were being abused with inhumane therapies. When she learned that the orphans were being used as experimental subjects, she couldn’t stand idly by, even if it meant standing up to her mentor, a prominent member of Ravensdale society.

She locked the head doctor in a room with a violently psychotic teenage patient and didn’t open the door until the doctor was dead of mysterious causes. _Mysterious,_ because an autopsy revealed the otherwise healthy doctor had died of a heart attack, and not a scratch on him.

After that, Viola Tandy took over the asylum and reformed it to better serve the children. Her adopted sons went on to convert it to a school in 1936.

Alex told me he could sometimes hear the tortured voices of the children who died in the Citadel. He could occasionally hear the head doctor screaming to be let out from some distant room in the science wing.

This school was haunted as fuck.

“And sometimes when I’m alone in my dorm room, I can hear the ghosts of the orphans whispering. They want me to tell them bedtime stories. So I read _Goodnight Moon_ to keep them from bothering me.”

“ _Your_ dorm room. As in _our_ dorm room,” I asked for clarification. He nodded.

I shouldn’t have been so scared, but the moonlight coming through the beveled glass windows made ghostly shapes on the polished floor and the darkness loomed behind me like a prowling specter. The eerie silence felt thick with quiet spirits.

“You better be taking the bloody piss,” I said, quickening my step.

“Gross,” said Alex, perplexed.

“It’s a British thing. It means yanking my chain. Pulling my knob. Getting one over on me.”

“What?” Alex remarked, chuckling.

“Taking the piss equals joking,” I said, getting frustrated, “Don’t ask me why. It just is.”

“I’m not taking a piss,” said Alex.

“ _The_ piss,” I corrected him, “Taking _a_ piss means having a wee, having a slash. In other words, urinating. Taking _a_ piss can also mean slacking off.”

Alex looked thoroughly confused, but also entirely entertained.

“Jesus, Alex. It’s still English. You’re looking at me like I’m speaking a different language.”

“You kind of are.”

I rolled my eyes. _Americans._

“Well come along, then. The ghosts want their bedtime story.” I pulled Alex down the corridor by his arm, and he didn’t seem bothered by it. I felt a lot less scared.

“ _Allons au lit_. _S’il vous plait_.” I said in my native tongue, teasing Alex by purposely not translating.

“That’s definitely not English.”

“I’m a Dufour. _Je parle français aussi_.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but it sounds French, and I like it.”

I blathered on in French, not saying anything meaningful at all, just to make Alex’s eyes smile.

#

I had trouble sleeping that night. Damn Alex and his ghost stories. The trees outside my window whispered, their leaves hissing in the wind. And in the shadows of their branches, I saw slender arms reaching for me through the window. _Yep. Haunted as fuck._

When my mobile vibrated at eleven o’clock, I was so on-edge that I nearly tumbled out of bed onto the floor as I reached for my phone.

“Bloody hell,” I hissed.

“You okay, Jules?” Alex asked, his voice raspy and tired.

There was a text message from my father. I had forgotten to call him.

_I didn’t hear from you. Assuming you’re fine. You only ever call me when you’re not. Have a good day at school tomorrow._

I wasn’t okay. But I wasn’t about to bloody ring my father to tell him I was afraid that ghost children were going to accost me and demand I read them a story. And I definitely wasn’t going to tell Alex this either.

“Hey,” Alex pressed when I didn’t answer him.

I must have stammered too much when I told him I was fine, because the next thing I knew, Alex was throwing off his covers and crossing the room in two strides to get to my bedside. He crouched down to meet my face and said, “I’m guessing you’re a little freaked out about the ghosts.”

“Not really,” I lied, unconvincingly.

“Dude, I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I probably shouldn’t have told you that the school is haunted. I didn’t think it would scare you so much. I swear I didn’t mean to scare you on purpose.”

Until he’d said it, I hadn’t thought he’d done it on purpose. But once that idea was in my head, I couldn’t get it out. It hurt. I thought Alex was going to be different from the arseholes at my other schools. But the only difference was that he was an arsehole with a conscience.

“It’s whatever,” I grumbled as I turned my back to him.

“I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep if you want,” he said.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t a _complete_ arsehole.

When I didn’t respond, he said, “I’m not trying to creep on you or anything. It’s just what I do for Willy when he gets scared at night.”

I thought about how Alex had comforted Ryan when he was crying. I wanted to know what that felt like.

“Erm, alright, I guess,” I said. I didn’t want to sound too keen. “But sit over there, or something.” I pointed to the foot of my bed. “I can’t have you in my face all night, because that would freak me out even more than needy ghost children.”

I curled up my legs to make room as Alex crawled onto my bed. He sat with his back resting against the wall.

“So you’ve legit seen ghosts at the school?” I asked, just to serve my curiosity, though I knew it would only feed into my fear.

He said he’d never seen them. He’d only heard them. It still wasn’t reassuring.

And when I asked him what the ghosts said, he answered, “I can’t understand any words. I hear sounds… whispers... voices… at night, or when I’m alone, when I know it couldn’t be people talking.”

Then I remembered that I was at a special school and I wondered if these voices were all in Alex’s head. Just because he was getting a free ride as part of the Tandy-Walker family, that didn’t exclude him or his relatives from having Issues. Alex’s Issue may have been that he quietly suffered from a mental illness.

When I asked him if he was the only one who could hear the ghosts, he got defensive.

“The only one who’ll admit it. Why?”

Maybe I wasn’t being as subtle as I had intended.

“No reason. Goodnight.”

“I’m not crazy, Jules.” He spoke softly, his words unsure.

Maybe he wanted to convince himself as much as he wanted to convince me.

There was something so endearing about someone who was perfect on the outside, while secretly atypical on the inside – just as imperfect as the rest of us.

“It’s okay, you know. We’re all a little crazy. I constantly have other people’s thoughts in my head. Not literally, but… I can’t stop imagining what people are thinking about me and my mind creates full conversations that aren’t actually happening. See? I’m crazy.” My next thought leapt out of my mouth before I could think better of it. “I don’t mind that you’re crazy. I rather like it.”

Alex laughed quietly. “That’s great, but I’m not crazy. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

He was cute, low-key hearing voices, _and_ completely chill about it. I kind of wanted to be best mates.


	6. Chapter 6

When I woke up, Alex was still on my bed. He had slumped over onto my desk, and was sleeping in an uncomfortable position, half way between sitting and laying down. What does one say when they wake up with a strange boy in their bed? To avoid an awkward conversation, I got out quietly, careful not to wake Alex.

Over the years at boarding school, I had forcibly trained my body into the habit of waking up miserably early to evade getting harassed in the showers. So I was half-awake in a stall with my pink grapefruit spa scrub disguised as Axe body wash before anyone had the chance to haze the newbie. And I was out before anybody could accuse me of being a _bum-watcher,_ though I’m sure American boys could come up with far worse homophobic insults.

Alex was still asleep when I returned to the room. I was already in my school uniform, straightening the half Windsor knot in my mauve tie, when Alex woke up, disoriented. It seemed to take him a few good seconds to realize he was in my bed. He sat up slowly, stared at me for a while, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and then seemed to remember who I was.

“Oh hey,” he said with a lazy little smile and a slight rasp in his voice that lowered it an octave.

There was an unexpected flutter in my chest. _God help me._ If Alex was going to make a habit of greeting me this way from my bed, we were going to have a problem. Fortunately, I wasn’t still _in_ my bed.

“You’re dressed already. Crap, what time is it?” He tangled his fingers in his hair, making even more of a mess of it, which shouldn’t have been so cute.

“No worries. You’re good. I’m an early riser.” _Shit. Bad choice of word._ “Erm, I mean, I’m easy to get up.” _Idiot. Try again._ “I mean, erm…” _Forget it, Jules, you’re a dork._ “It’s only quarter to seven. You’ve got loads of time to get dressed before breakfast.”

“Yeah, but I have to get Willy dressed too.” He stood up from my bed and his eyes fixated on something I was wearing. “You’ve got it in the wrong place.”

He reached for the lapel of my grey school blazer and I held my breath. I didn’t know why I was made anxious by his closeness. I had just spent the night with him in my bed, and standing a few inches apart shouldn’t have made me tense. He took the silver raven pin out of my lapel.

“Oh. Is that not a lapel pin?” I asked, only mildly startled that Alex was dressing me like I was one of his little siblings.

He shook his head and placed the pin on my necktie. “There. Now you’re perfect.” He straightened my tie and even went as far as fastening the metal buttons of my blazer. Realizing he’d probably overstepped, he backed away awkwardly, cleared his throat and gave me a shy little smile. “Um. Sorry. I’m just so used to, um… taking care of other people.”

I tried to make him feel less weird. “And lucky for you, I’m used to having another bloke fussing over my clothes. It’s what happens when you’re a Dufour.”

Alex looked at me questioningly. Did he honestly not know who my family were?

Of course not. He was an American teenage boy who was obsessed with sports. What would he know about the fashion industry or deposed European socialites? I was surprised his little sister hadn’t told him my entire family history by now. I was surprised she hadn’t told the whole school. Or had she? Sabrina had known who I was before I’d even introduced myself.

 _Shit_. Did Cleo know about the criminal charges against me? I couldn’t tell if anyone else at the school was doing the crime diversion thing. For all I knew, I was the only delinquent among my new acquaintances. I really didn’t fancy Alex finding out about my recent arrest.

I dragged myself to the dining hall for breakfast. Only a few people were there at this hour, helping themselves to waffles and sliced fruit. Cleo was sitting at the family table, hair perfectly coiffed. I sat across from her, seizing the opportunity to talk to her alone.

I growled quietly, “What ever happened to the strict privacy policy? I’ve been here, not even a day, and everyone already knows my business.”

She didn’t look up from her waffle, which she cut primly into tiny squares. “I don’t know who you’re referring to as _everybody._ But anyway, the privacy policy only pertains to young offenders and their criminal records.”

I huffed. “That doesn’t make everything else fair game, Cleo. And you really shouldn’t have access to everyone’s secrets.”

Cleo took a dainty bite of waffle, chewed thoughtfully, and still wouldn’t look at me. “It’s not like I have special access. I only know what’s on the surface for everyone to see. People don’t realize their stories are written all over them. I’m good at reading people. Waffle?” She finally glanced up, only to push the communal plate toward me.

I frowned, unconvinced, and quietly glared at Cleo while helping myself to waffles and fruit, avoiding bananas even though they were sliced.

Then I noticed somebody sitting alone at another table, reading the latest issue of _Dufour_ magazine very conspicuously. A pair of sunglasses peeked at me from over the top of the magazine, and I realized it was Sabrina lurking behind the glossy pages.

I called out to her, “Did you read the article about stalking? It’s so last season.”

“Get over yourself, Dufour,” she drawled, slinking back behind the magazine.

“You should talk to her,” said Cleo, gesturing at Sabrina with a perfectly impaled bit of waffle, “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but she likes you.”

“I’m afraid that she does. In which case, talking to her would only encourage her,” I said.

“God forbid you make a friend,” Cleo scoffed. Sabrina’s sass must have rubbed off onto her when she did Cleo’s hair this morning.

“Fine,” I relented with a huff. “But if I need to take out a restraining order, you’ll have to use your political connections to expedite it.”

I walked over to Sabrina and sat across from her. When she peered over the magazine to find me sitting there, she asked casually, “Do you want something, Jules?”

I smiled tightly and said, “I should be asking _you_ that question.”

“I’m reading a magazine,” said Sabrina, “Can’t a girl read a magazine while having her morning coffee?”

My whole sluggish body piqued with interest. “They serve coffee here?”

“Of course not. Can you imagine what free-flowing caffeine would do to all the kids with ADHD?”

“Oh I _know_ what free-flowing caffeine does to kids with ADHD. It makes us functional in the morning.”

“If you play your cards right, you can get in on this too,” she drawled, smirking darkly. “I have my ways of getting Starbucks on campus.” She wrapped her lips around a green reusable straw and took an indulgent sip of her iced caffeinated beverage. “Mmm.”

“Pumpkin spice?” I asked her, half joking.

“Do I look like a basic bitch to you?” she sniffed. “Iced caramel latte.”

I groaned longingly, an addict itching for a fix, “Oh fuck me…”

Sabrina abandoned the coffee and magazine, joined me on the bench, and sat with her legs facing out. She leaned back against the table, crossed one black-thigh-high-stocking-clad leg over the other, and asked, “Do you believe in Fate, Jules?”

“I believe in nothing,” I said blithely.

“Yeah same,” she admitted. “But it’s no accident that you arrived at this school, just as I’m on my way out. It can’t be a coincidence. For you to come all the way across the Atlantic, to _this_ school, out of all the schools in the world you could’ve attended, to meet me. Some power in the universe must have set this in motion. It’s too auspicious.”

“You’re creeping me out,” I said flatly.

“Do you want coffee or not, Dufour?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m a photographer, Julien. Not just any kind of photographer, I’m a fashion photographer. Look me up on Instagram. _NuevaNoir._ I have three-thousand followers. But who cares about three-thousand followers, right? Certainly not Parsons School of Art. They looked at my portfolio and said, _your work lacks point-of-view._ They won’t let me into the photography program until I _hone my vision._ They told me to get experience in the field _._ Do an apprenticeship.”

Seeing where this was going, I gave a bored sigh and grumbled blithely. “So go out there and get more experience.”

“Do you know how hard it is to get experience like that? This summer, I did an internship at Teen Vogue. All I did was fetch coffee for the assistant to the assistant editor’s assistant, and _not once_ did I get close to a photographer.” She heaved a dramatic sigh like a forlorn old-school Hollywood starlet. “I don’t have time for that shit.”

“Why don’t you just go to another art school?”

“I’m not wasting my time or my money on a liberal arts degree from some no-name school. I want a BFA in photography from Parsons, and I won’t settle for anything less.”

She’d get on swimmingly with my father if they ever met.

“Let me guess,” I said, “You want an apprenticeship at Dufour Magazine. And you want me to make that happen.”

She reached for her iced coffee and took a sip. “Mm, so good. Wouldn’t you like one of these at breakfast every morning?”

I did. I _really_ did. I watched a bead of condensation roll down the outside of the reusable plastic tumbler. It was too hot to be wearing a wool school uniform in an old building with no air conditioning. And my brain desperately needed a chemical kick start to deal with this early hour.

“I’ll talk to my father,” I said.

Sabrina gave a breathy gasp, briefly dropping her cool to reveal her hopeful excitement. “You will?”

I nodded. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to him.”

She smiled genuinely, and I almost felt guilty. Sure, I could tell my father about Sabrina. But he no longer had any pull at the magazine. He wasn’t even on speaking terms with anyone in the family. Sabrina’s ambitions would slide off Father’s back as easily as it had slid off mine, because he and I were two dead ducks in my grandfather’s eyes, and Sabrina’s fashion photography dreams were water.

Oh, the things I did for the love of coffee…

“You and I are going to be friends,” Sabrina declared, “Two properly caffeinated friends.”

When I returned to my breakfast, Cleo said, “I guess Sabrina only likes you for your name.” It didn’t take a nosy know-it-all to figure that out.

I slumped in my chair, deflated. “Well, it’s better than getting harassed for my name.”

“Is that what happened at your last school?” she asked, her inflection a little sad, like she personally knew what it was like.

“At every bloody school I’ve been to,” I grumbled, then lowered my voice a few octaves to sound like the dolts who hassled me. “ _Dufour thinks he’s better than everyone because he’s French and his dad’s famous, so let’s remind him every single bloody day that he’s nothing_.” It hadn’t mattered that I didn’t need reminding.

“This is why we have to strive for excellence, Jules. When they go low, we go high.”

If only I’d followed those famous words at Bridgehampton. “Is that one of your mum’s sayings?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Michelle Obama.”

“I was close.”

“That’s kind of racist.”

I cocked my head to the side. “How is that racist? They’re both influential African American women.”

“And now you’re being sexist.”

“Chill out, Social Justice Warrior. Excuse me if I mixed up two of the most prominent black female political voices in recent history.”

“They’re individual humans,” said Cleo, “Not interchangeable.”

Chewing on her words and my waffles, I nodded slowly.

She was absolutely right, and it was true for me as well. I was a Dufour. But that didn’t make me my father or my obscenely wealthy and influential grandfather. We were not interchangeable. Cleo understood this. Unfortunately, Sabrina did not.

Alex arrived with Willoughby in tow and greeted us with a smile that was too bright for a Monday morning. “What’s up?” he said as he slid onto the bench and clapped me on the back.

“Your roommate’s ignorant. That’s what’s up,” muttered Cleo.

“Cloelia,” Alex reprimanded her.

“Just thought you should know,” said Cleo with a small shrug.

I took my leave of the dining hall before finishing breakfast, rather than letting Cleo roast me in front of Alex.

I finally had the chance to sulk alone in my room. Boarding school achievement unlocked.

I had woken up this morning, prepared to throw down at a new school filled with arseholes, perhaps _criminal_ arseholes. But at Masters Academy, I found that _I_ was the arsehole. I was probably an arsehole back in England too and hadn’t realized it because I was busy dodging worse arseholes.

In England, kids hated me for stuff I couldn’t change. Standing up to haters only required me to be my fabulous gay self. Being myself wasn’t going to cut it here at Masters Academy. I was expected to be better. I wasn’t sure I was even capable of being a _good_ person, let alone a _better_ one. Is this what Dr. Tandy had meant about the school being an immersive reformative environment? Did everyone just shame each other into being socially just, law-abiding citizens?

And to top it all off, I had moved to an entirely different continent, yet I couldn’t escape the clutches of people who cared about my name but didn’t care about _me_. Same shit, different accents.

Alex came back to our dorm room to get his school bag. I was lying on my bed in full uniform, my wingtip Oxfords and all.

“Dude, what are you doing in bed? Let’s go. We’re gonna be late to first period,” he said.

“Language Arts?” I scoffed. “Don’t need it. I can speak two languages. I’m all set, thanks.” I didn’t really mean it. I was just grumpy. Language Arts was always my favorite subject. Literature was my jam.

“You’re gonna get detention if you skip first period,” Alex warned.

“What does that entail at an alternative learning academy in a cultivated environment of serenity, I wonder? Thirty minutes of managing my impulses? Mandatory yoga?”

“Therapy,” said Alex, “It means a therapy session with Dr. Gupta. And, dude, she can get into your head and make you work through crap you didn’t even know you had to work through. It’s intense.”

I pretended to weigh my options in my hands. “Doing some soul searching after classes, versus going to Language Arts and writing a personal narrative essay about the boring shit I did last summer. Hm.”

Alex took me by the hand and tried to pull me up to a sitting position. “Come on, Jules, it’s really not so bad.”

I reluctantly sat up. I don’t know why it had taken me until that moment to realize Alex was dressed in his uniform, and that it was a remarkable improvement over the baggy shorts and basketball shirt he’d been wearing yesterday. Alex looked really nice in tailoring. The mauve trim along the lapel of the blazer and the mauve necktie complimented his tawny complexion.

Alex continued pulling me by the hand. “Almost there. Off your butt.”

I groaned as I got off the bed. I let Alex drag me all the way to the Citadel while I complained, even though I’d pretty much made up my mind to go to classes the moment Alex had taken my hand.

The school day started with a three-note chime and morning announcements, broadcast from Dr. Tandy’s office to every classroom’s smart board.

“Good morning Masters Academy learners,” said Dr. Tandy, “I invite you to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”

I vaguely remembered Mateo telling me about this bizarre display of American patriotism. I was inclined by my nationality to stay seated, but not as a political statement. It just didn’t pertain to me.

I looked around the room and noticed that I was the only one sitting down. I didn’t want to be the odd one out. I belatedly lifted my arse an inch off the chair, when the kid behind me muttered, “What? Are you too good to stand for the pledge?”

I swung around and gave the kid a scathing look. _What? Are you a moron who blindly does whatever he’s told?_ Thank god that one didn’t get past my brain-to-mouth filter, because Alex was watching. Or maybe it was _because_ Alex was watching, that I was able to suppress my autonomic snark reflex.

“He’s British,” said Alex, “He doesn’t have to pledge allegiance to the American flag.”

Was he defending me? Like _actually_ sticking up for me? I was so shocked and grateful, I didn’t bother correcting him about my citizenship. I flashed him a shy smile of gratitude and decided that from then on, I had to commit to sitting every morning. I couldn’t half-arse it.

Mr. Day, our language arts and homeroom teacher, cleared his throat loudly. “Friends, let’s be respectful.” He pointed to the smart board to redirect our attention.

As if Dr. Tandy had heard the exchange, which of course was impossible because he was broadcasting from his office, he said, “Just a reminder, standing for the pledge is not mandatory, but my daughter would be upset with me if you didn’t… I’m just kidding. The choice is always yours.”

Willoughby lead the group recitation in sign language, while Cleo put her hand over her heart and spoke the words aloud, both of them flanking Dr. Tandy. “I pledge allegiance to the flag…”

And if that wasn’t strange enough, we were then invited to recite the Daily Affirmation. That wasn’t an American thing. That was purely Masters Academy.

_I matter._

_I am a special individual._

_I am more powerful than I know._

_I am a conduit for the energy of the universe._

I kid you not. What sort of New Age hippie cult had I signed up for? Glancing around the room, everyone was delivering the words with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Nobody else seemed to find this daily affirmation strange, not even Alex.

Dr. Tandy finished with, “Remember folks, do your best to uphold the environment of serenity by respecting one another, respecting your surroundings, and respecting yourselves. Have a happy Monday.”

Mr. Day clicked off the smart board and said, “Don’t get comfortable. The weather is too nice. We’re going outside.”

Class was held by the river at the foot of the Citadel. We sat in the sun on the warm wooden planks of the kayak dock with our blazers off and our notebooks on our laps. I wanted to stay skeptical of Masters Academy. I didn’t want to like it because I probably wasn’t staying. But brilliant stuff like this was making it so hard.

Our assignment was to write a haiku about what we could see, hear, smell, or feel at the moment. I was so blissed out on sunshine and being free from the confines of a classroom that I was inspired to write a poem about the Hudson Highlands, the hills beneath which we sat. The same hills which had seemed unremarkable when I’d first arrived, now rolled majestically in lush shades of green.

I snuck a clandestine peek at Alex’s notebook. He was writing about lucent blonde hair in the sunshine and the scent of grapefruit.

I nearly died. But my blissful near-death experience was short lived. The following class, Alex sat between me and Ryan at a science lab table. Before Chemistry got underway, Ryan took out a packet of grapefruit gum and offered Alex a piece. Unlike the ice cream, Alex eagerly accepted this bit of sugar from Ryan. I’d been a dolt for assuming Alex had written about me and my grapefruit bath scrub in Language Arts.

At lunch, Alex took his tray out to the patio, which we were allowed to do when the weather permitted, and he sat next to Ryan at a table for two. Further proof that I hadn’t been the subject of Alex’s poem. Alex told me to pull up a chair, but I recognized myself as the third wheel and politely declined.

I found Sabrina and we flipped through _Dufour_ magazine while eating sandwiches by the fountain. She was interesting enough that I decided to conveniently forget she only wanted to be friends with me because my grandfather’s name was on the masthead of a fashion magazine. It was so nice to have lunch with a girl who ate more than foliage.

I made sure I leaned close to Sabrina whenever Alex seemed to be looking in our direction. It was stupid of me. I was trying to prove to myself and to Alex that I wasn’t jealous of Ryan’s position as Alex’s best mate. But deep down inside, I wished I could get close to Alex. I wished he could lavish me with the sort of attention he gave Ryan.

After classes, I collapsed onto my bed with a relieved sigh. Today hadn’t _entirely_ sucked.

Nobody harassed me too badly. Nobody called me horrible names, though the Maths teacher, Ms. Ainsley, mistakenly pronounced my name like _do for,_ rhymes with _shore,_ instead of _do foor,_ rhymes with _sure,_ and joked, “What can I do for you, Mr. Dufour?”

I hadn’t gotten into trouble today, though I came close in Social Studies, when the text message alert pinged on my mobile – I had forgotten to turn the ringer off.

It was my father. Part of me wondered if he was purposely texting me during lessons so I could get in trouble and be forced to speak with him.

I rang him up at the end of the school day, just so he would leave me alone. I gave vague answers to all of his questions.

Was I liking this school so far? It was alright. Had I made any friends? I guess so. Was my roommate nice? He was at the moment. Did anybody give me any trouble? Not really.

I’m sure my lack of descriptive words infuriated him enough that he wouldn’t attempt asking me again for another few days. At least, that was my hope. I decided to save the conversation about Sabrina for another day.

When Alex came into our room and asked me how my day was, my answer was _okay_.

“Just _okay_? I don’t know, man,” Alex said skeptically, “You look happy to me.”

I shrugged, biting back the smile that was only threatening to crack because Alex was there. _Is that a smile on your face Julien Dufour, or are you just happy to see me?_

“You seem to be getting along pretty well with Sabrina,” he said. I was pleased that he had noticed.

“Yeah. She’s bloody gorgeous, isn’t she?”

I didn’t know why I’d said it. It had come out reflexively. Yeah, Sabrina was as beautiful as the fashion models she dreamed of photographing. But I didn’t care. I had no interest in being anything more than friends with girls. I was doing that stupid self-preservation hetero-faking thing I had done back in primary school. I always hated doing it. I didn’t know why I was doing it where it wasn’t needed.

Alex hesitated to answer. Maybe he didn’t think she was attractive. Maybe he was surprised that I was even attracted to girls (I wasn’t really). Maybe he was disappointed.

“Sure. She’s cute,” he said, noncommittally. Then he quickly changed the subject. He was really good at doing that. “Is this a turntable?” he asked, pointing at the record player that was dominating my crowded desk. I nodded. “It looks cool. Vintage,” he said, bending down to take a closer look.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” My finger traced the walnut grain of the wood cabinet housing the receiver. “1971 Marantz. My father’s boyfriend gave it to me. Pretty sure it’s older than he is.”

“Your dad’s _what_?”

Of all the people I had met at Masters, Alex was the last one I expected to be scandalized by my father’s relationship with Mateo.

“My father’s boyfriend. Mateo,” I said with a defensive edge to my voice.

I could tell that Alex was trying to sound chill, but the unnatural tightness of his delivery betrayed his discomfort. “Your dad is… gay? Wow. That’s cool.”

“No. He’s bisexual,” I corrected him shortly.

“Oh. Uh, sorry. I, er, forgot that’s like a thing,” said Alex, his words clipped.

“You forgot?” I scoffed. It wasn’t my responsibility to teach him about bi-erasure. I was surprised his sister hadn’t already schooled him on that.

Color began to spread across his cheeks as he stumbled through the next logical question. “So, um… are you, like…um…?”

I saved him the trouble. “I’m gay, Alex,” I said flatly, “I’m so gay, I’m like, a six on the Kinsey scale.”

“Six on the what now?”

Oh my god. Alex was clueless.

“Is this going to be a problem?” I asked. Perhaps I threatened.

“No,” Alex was quick to answer. “No, it’s fine. I’m… I’m, um…”

_You’re what, Alex? Gay? Pansexual? Questioning? Spit it out._

“I’m pretty chill with people’s sexual orientations and gender expressions,” he said, to my relief and disappointment.

Yeah, I might have had a straight ally for a roommate. But I was hoping for something else.

Was it possible that Alex didn’t know what he was? At age sixteen or seventeen, how could he _not_ know? Then again, Masters Academy seemed like the sort of safe space where identity could be fluid, ever-evolving. I wasn’t going to push him to reveal his sexuality or ask him what his preferred pronouns were. Alex probably wasn’t entirely sure yet, or wasn’t ready to tell me.

He cleared the tightness in his throat and changed the subject back to the record player. “Hey, can we actually use this thing?”

“I know it looks like a relic, but it works great. Sounds amazing. So much better than the compressed rubbish that you stream through your phone.” I fingered through my stack of records and selected one of my favorites. “Once you’ve listened to Led Zeppelin on vinyl, you’ll never be able to listen to them any other way _._ ” I extracted the disc from the weathered cardboard sleeve, careful not to scratch it, then reverently placed it on the turntable.

“I’ve heard _of_ them, but I don’t think I’ve ever _heard_ them before,” said Alex.

With a hand on my chest, I gasped. “What do you mean you’ve never heard Led Zeppelin? _Stairway to Heaven_? _Immigrant Song_?”

Alex shook his head.

“Christ, have you been living in a bubble your whole life?”

Alex glanced at his hands and shrugged meekly. I hadn’t meant to insult him, but my intention rarely matched up with the words that actually left my mouth. Perhaps I was being too harsh. I mean, Zeppelin was as old as sin and Alex couldn’t have been too sequestered if he was a fan of recent music like Twenty One Pilots.

“Well, alright then. Prepare to have your mind blown.”

With practiced precision, I dropped the needle on the record. When _Whole Lotta Love_ started playing, the sounds coming out of the speakers were decadent and sensual. They welled up from the hot earth, primal and carnal. I fell onto my bed and let the music wrap me up in its sinister arms.

“Isn’t it _so_ good?” I breathed out.

Alex looked at me from where he sat on his bed, bobbing his head in a gentle groove in time with the churning rhythm of the guitar and bass. From his pleased expression, I knew he could hear what I heard. Maybe he even felt what I felt.

We lay on our beds as the sounds surged and thrummed through our pubescent bodies like a deliciously forbidden touch.

“Damn, bro. I didn’t know music could sound so good. I can almost, like… _feel_ it through the speakers, you know? Ear buds are garbage.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, mate.” Alex got it. It was written all over his blissed out expression. And it felt so good to bring Alex over to the dark side with me.

As I watched him vibe with his eyes closed, I was reminded of my own musical awakening. The moment when my latent sensuality had been roused by the bluesy twang of an electric guitar at twelve-years-old.

I remembered taking home a stack of rummage sale records, wondering what kind of dark sorcery the vinyl discs could spin. The records had looked like ancient tomes of forbidden magic, with their sun bleached cardboard jackets decorated with provocative, sometimes obscene, cover art. It seemed that the music they contained would not be fit for young ears, and that was precisely why I had wanted to listen to them.

“You know what this means now, don’t you?” Alex asked, grinning like he had a secret.

“You’re a proper hipster now?”

“I can’t listen to music any other way,” he said, holding up his mobile, “You’ve ruined me for other media, bro. I can never go back.”

Alex was never going back.

And I was determined to stay.


	7. Chapter 7

I had survived my first week at an American high school without getting my arse kicked or suffering the threat of violence. John Hughes movies were a lie. It was fair to say that, in a cultivated environment of serenity, it probably wasn’t going to happen, even if I provoked it.

The real challenge was to keep my big mouth from reviling everyone I talked to. And if I could manage my impulses enough to not insult people, maybe they’d actually like me. Maybe I’d even enjoy myself here.

Which begged the question, what does one do for fun in a cultivated environment of serenity? I would soon find out.

Sabrina and I were walking back to the Manor after classes on Friday when Cleo accosted us on the path.

“Club fair in the dining hall until five o’clock. I’m recruiting for the debate team. Get there early, before it gets crowded.”

The way she said this made it sound more like, _I command you to the dining hall where you shall join my minions_.

Okay, so maybe not _that_ sinister, but still... She hadn’t given us a choice.

Joining the debate team was not the first thing that came to mind when thinking about enjoying myself at Masters Academy.

“Fabulous. See you there,” said Sabrina, genuinely interested.

I smiled tightly, then elbowed Sabrina in Cleo’s wake. “Seriously? Debate team?”

Sabrina put her palms up defensively. “What? I like to argue.”

Admittedly, I was also argumentative, but joining a team was more extracurricular activity than I was used to, which is to say, I wasn’t used to any at all. 

“You don’t strike me as the debate team type,” I said.

“I’m trying new things. I’ve wasted the past two years, smoking weed and hooking up with jocks.”

I responded, quite honestly, “I don’t know, Sabrina. Smoking weed and hooking up with jocks sounds like a fine way to spend one’s free time.”

Sabrina gave a soft, patronizing laugh. “You’re cute.” Then she admitted, “I can’t list smoking and hooking up as extracurriculars on my college application. Debate club, however…”

Alex came up from behind and clapped me hard on the shoulder. “What’s up, guys?”

I appreciated his effort to make me feel like _one of the guys_ , but I bruised easily, and I would eventually have to tell him to chill with the aggressive greetings. I would’ve preferred the air kisses he exchanged with Sabrina.

“Club fair in the dining hall,” said Alex, “I’ll be at the Mavens table. It would be awesome if you came through.”

“I am _so_ there. What time? Like, now?” _Oh my god, Jules, eager much?_

Alex smiled. “Give me like, ten minutes. I gotta set up.”

“Brilliant. See you in five. I mean, ten. Or fifteen, in case you need more time. Whatever. I’ll be there.” Like a dork, I gave him two thumbs up.

In return, Alex gave my shoulder another enthusiastic pat and jogged on.

Sabrina crossed her arms, raised an expressive eyebrow at me over the rim of her sunglasses, and flashed an amused smirk. “Seriously?”

I grinned back at her. “What? I like being punctual.”

“That’s not _all_ you like,” she remarked insinuatingly.

With a haughty shrug, I dismissed what she was implying. “It’s whatever. He’s my roommate. And I’ve only known him for five days.”

“I’m not judging. I get it. Your roommate is hot.”

I scoffed loudly, wordlessly, though I couldn’t refute her assessment. It was obvious I wasn’t cut out for the debate team, though I did feel a surge of competitiveness knowing that Sabrina might have had eyes for Alex.

When Sabrina and I arrived at the club fair, I spotted Alex right away, sitting across the room, beneath a mauve banner emblazoned with the school mascot – a raven with its black wings outstretched menacingly. _Go Mavens!_

“What the hell is a _Maven_?” I asked.

“An expert. A master of something,” said Sabrina.

“Well, that makes sense. Masters Academy Mavens.”

“The Maven Ravens in Mauve,” Sabrina snorted derisively.

I snickered. “Badass.”

When Alex saw me from a distance, he smiled and acknowledged me with an upward nod. It felt good to be noticed like that, in a massive space, among so many people who were dressed identically to me.

My cheeks warmed. I gave Alex a quick wave and latched onto Sabrina’s arm. By dragging her to at least three other tables before even considering visiting the Mavens table, I made sure to counteract my earlier eagerness to see Alex. We even stopped at the Mathletes table, where Ryan and another kid sat, solving equations for fun.

Ryan didn’t look up at me, not even to tell me to sod off. I didn’t blame him. I was the arsehole who made him cry upon first meeting him.

“Hey, Ry,” Sabrina greeted him sweetly with a lingering kiss on his cheek.

“Hey, ‘Brina,” replied Ryan, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears, the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“You recruiting for Mathletes, darling?” Sabrina asked, affectionately messing his hair, doting on him like a pet or a beloved child.

Ryan glared at me and splayed his hand over the sign-up sheet. “Don’t sign up unless you’re prepared to throw down with Yonkers Montessori Academy. If you can’t solve for X in less than fifteen seconds, you’ll just bring down the rest of the team.”

_Erm, no thank you._

“I’m sure you’ll beat those bastards this year. I believe in you,” said Sabrina, tucking a stray lock of platinum blonde hair behind his reddened ears, “You’re so smart, you put Einstein to shame.”

“Einstein’s dead,” Ryan said matter-of-factly.

“I’m just saying. You’re a genius. See you later, sweetie.” With that, Sabrina waved goodbye with the flutter of ebony-tipped fingers.

As we walked away, I mumbled to her, “Should you be flirting with him like that?”

“Why _shouldn’t_ I flirt with him?” Sabrina asked, offended. “Because he’s autistic? He’s still human. And a cute one at that.”

 _You’re a dick, Jules_. She was right, of course.

Now I wasn’t sure who she was after. Ryan or Alex? Though she _had_ said she was done hooking up with jocks, and Alex was definitely a jock.

When Sabrina and I finally arrived at the Mavens table, Alex was already smiling, and when I greeted him, his smile brightened. “You should totally try out for one of the teams this fall, Jules. I can help you train.”

I made a face and sucked air slowly through my teeth, as if I had just been asked to do something painful. “Yeah, erm, sports? Sports and I don’t mix.” I couldn’t even fake being keen for Alex’s sake. Never mind the fact that I wasn’t athletic, how could I commit to a sports team when I wasn’t sure I’d be coming back after tenth December?

“Maybe there’s one you haven’t tried yet that you might like,” Alex proposed, his eyes gleaming with the optimism of a Disney Princess.

“I dislike romaine lettuce,” I said, “So I don’t eat salad. I don’t feel the need to go around trying different kinds of lettuce, just in case there’s a type of lettuce out there that I don’t hate. I feel the same way about sports.”

“Fair enough. But you can pour ranch dressing on any kind of lettuce to make it taste good. Maybe you should do the same for sports,” he suggested.

I had no idea what he was trying to say. Maybe he was using any angle to get me to change my mind.

“Though pouring ranch dressing all over the boys swim team sounds quite appealing, it’s not going to get me into a Speedo.”

Alex laughed heartily. I could listen to him laughing all day. I loved each way he laughed, from his twinkling giggle, to his sonorous cackle, and even his nasal snicker. It made me warm and blissfully dazed, like sun on the beach.

“I didn’t know we had a fencing team.” Sabrina said, eying the sign-up sheet.

Alex handed her the clipboard and she took it eagerly. “Yeah. It’s a co-ed team. I don’t really know much about it, but you can sign up and somebody on the team will contact you.”

“Jules, darling, do fencing with me,” she said, massaging my shoulder with her jeweled fingers. “They have the most fabulous masks.”

“Sharp things flying at my face? No thanks. Not even while wearing a _fabulous_ mask.” Though a secret part of me wondered what it would feel like to stick someone with a fencing foil, I wasn’t going to do it just because a pretty girl wanted me to. I was done being an accessory.

“What about sharp things flying away from your face?” Alex asked, handing me a clipboard. “Kyudo. Japanese archery. Another co-ed sport. It’s more of a club than a team, though.”

Sabrina practically snatched the clipboard out of my hands. “Ooh. Archery. Yes, please.”

I felt bad that Alex was trying so hard to recruit me, and I didn’t want to disappoint him by leaving the table without signing up for something. In the end, I put my name on the list for Kyudo. I figured Japanese archery was probably the only sport that didn’t involve intense physical activity, and therefore the only one I was suited for. Plus, a club sounded like less of a commitment than a team. Sabrina seemed happy that we’d be joining Kyudo club together. But Alex looked disappointed, probably because I hadn’t signed up for any sports that he played. His recruiting efforts didn’t end at the club fair.

At dinner, Alex told me that a bunch of guys were getting together on Saturday to practice for lacrosse tryouts. “Maybe you could watch. You could see if it’s something you might like.”

“I admit, I am dying to know what it is you do with those funny stick nets. But I’m actually going home this weekend,” I said.

Alex’s smile fell. “Oh. Already?”

Was Alex actually disappointed that I’d be leaving? I’d only known him for a few days. When people like Jasmine hadn’t given a shit about me leaving school _forever_ , being missed came as a refreshing surprise.

“Yeah,” I groaned. “Tomorrow’s kind of my birthday. Seventeen.” I rolled my eyes.

“Dude!” Alex smacked my shoulder. “You should’ve told us!”

“Erm, I just did,” I muttered and glanced sideways, rubbing my smarting shoulder.

“I mean you should’ve told us earlier. We would’ve done something for you. Right, Cleo?”

Cleo shrugged. I had a feeling she had already known of my impending birthday.

I was completely taken aback by Alex’s enthusiasm. Not only did Alex care that I was leaving, he cared that it was my birthday tomorrow. He barely knew me, and already, he was being a better friend than Jasmine had ever been.

“No worries. Birthdays are kind of whatever for me.” I gestured dismissively. “We’re not even making a big deal about it at home. Really, I’m just going back for our housewarming party. Mateo and my father want me to meet the neighbors. Which is so stupid, because the neighbors are like so far away.”

“Do you live on a farm or something?” asked Alex. He was so bloody clueless, which was wonderful. Anyone who knew my family’s reputation would never think to ask if we lived on a farm.

I nodded. “Basically. It’s Bedford Hills. People there have acres of nothing for their horses to romp around in. I can barely see the closest house to our house. We don’t have a horse, so we have no business living on so much land.”

“Awh, Jules,” Sabrina cooed, faking sympathy, “Sounds so hard to live on an enormous estate. I bet your dad has to drive the Porsche to the mailbox.”

“The Mercedes, actually, and my father doesn’t get the post. He makes his manservant fetch it for him.” I said this so matter-of-factly that nobody questioned if I was telling the truth. Of course, I wasn’t. I had worked so hard in the UK to keep up the façade of wealth that it came reflexively to me. Besides, I wasn’t ready to tell Sabrina the truth about my father’s fall from grace.

The less than glamorous truth was that we were renting a converted carriage house on the property of somebody’s sprawling estate and riding around in Mateo’s cramped old Mini Cooper. It was all perfectly fine, though not very Dufour according to my father.

After dinner, Sabrina made me promise that I’d talk to my father about an apprenticeship. I agreed, since she’d thus far kept her word about bringing me iced coffee at breakfast, and it was only fair that I hold up my part of the bargain.

Alex offered to walk me across the bridge to the visitor parking lot where Mateo would be waiting for me with the car.

“You don’t have to,” I told him.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to,” Alex said with a gracious smile.

I really didn’t want him to. There wouldn’t be a Mercedes waiting for me. But I also didn’t want to be a dick and tell him flat out _no_.

“Really, Alex, it’s alright,” I breathed out. “I’ll be fine.”

Alex glanced away, bit the corner of his lip, and nodded. He looked like he’d been rejected. I felt awful, so I relented.

“Actually… I don’t know how to get the gate to open. Maybe you could show me.”

As we walked down the gravel path, I was quiet, trying to formulate an excuse for the absent Mercedes. Lying was so tiresome.

We reached the iron gate at the end of the gravel path. Alex punched in the code on the keypad.

My eyes widened. “You know the code?”

“Yeah. It’s a security protocol. Melody insists. In case of emergency.”

“Pays to be the President’s stepson,” I said.

“I guess….” Though he was smiling, I thought I detected a hint of negativity, but it was gone in a flash. “Is he not here yet?” he asked when he saw the beat up old Mini Cooper in the distance.

I exhaled slowly. “That’s him.”

“Oh. I was expecting…”

“A Mercedes? I was joking,” I said flatly, absent of humor.

“Is that why you didn’t want me to walk you across?” he asked me gently.

I couldn’t play off my lies as sarcasm. Alex saw through me. I shrugged.

“You don’t have to pretend that you’re rich here, bro. Nobody cares.” From the casual tone of his voice, I could tell he was sympathetic. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, Masters isn’t like other boarding schools. It’s a really good school, but it’s not, like, elite or anything. All kinds of kids go here.”

Like kids with arrest records.

I looked down at the dust from the gravel gathering on my shoes. I felt like I could trust him, and so I admitted, “Yeah, I’m not rich.” Saying it was liberating. It meant I wouldn’t have to pretend with Alex. Well… I wouldn’t have to pretend to be wealthy. I still had to pretend I was a normal student because I wasn’t ready to tell anyone why I was here.

“Dr. Tandy says we’re all important at Masters Academy. We’re all entitled to the same resources. It doesn’t matter how much money our families have or don’t have. It doesn’t matter who our parents are. We’re all equal.”

It didn’t matter that I was a Dufour.

“We’re all equal, but Cleo acts like she’s better than all of us,” I joked.

We both laughed.

“She kind of _is_ , though,” Alex admitted shyly. “ _Both_ of my siblings are pretty special.”

It warmed my heart, how much he loved his family.

When Mateo came out of the car, Alex introduced himself, all proper and adult-like, offering a hand to shake.

“Nice to finally meet you, sir. Jules told me about you. I’m Alexander Walker Lee. Jules’ roommate.”

 _Oh God_. Alex was calling him _sir_. Although I appreciated his effort to impress Mateo, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.

Uptight dads were called _sir._ Mateo wasn’t the type of bloke who commanded such formality. His arms were sleeved in tattoos. He was wearing the same beloved Nirvana shirt he’d been wearing when he had dropped me off, and it looked like he’d owned it since Nirvana was still around.

Mateo flashed me a little smile of approval as he shook hands with Alex.

“Pleased to meet you, Alexander. Call me Teo.”

Mateo was so bloody charmed by Alex, he dropped the first two letters of his name. Only my father and their closest friends called him Teo.

“Missed you, buddy,” he said, pulling me into an embrace, which I readily accepted this time. It felt okay to be huggy again. I had missed him more than I’d missed my own father. He smelled of home when I squeezed him. Of cigarettes and coffee and spicy food.

He turned to Alex and said, “Is Jules behaving himself?”

“Yes sir,” said Alex. He wasn’t lying, surprisingly enough.

Mateo smirked. “There’s still time.” He winked.

Alex chuckled.

I kept the sound of his laugh with me all the way home.


	8. Chapter 8

On the morning of my birthday, I awoke to the aroma of huevos rancheros and French vanilla coffee, and knew that Mateo had made breakfast especially for me. When I came down to the kitchen, I found a little birthday candle in my garlic toast.

I put my face in my hands and grumbled, “You didn’t…,” even though I was chuffed.

Mateo quickly lit the candle and opened his mouth wide enough to sing, but I shot him a warning glare. He bloody well knew how I felt about lit candles and the birthday song.

“If you’re not going to let me sing happy birthday, then at least make a wish and blow out the candle,” he said.

I shut my eyes and wished for the first thing I saw behind my closed eyelids. Messy black hair, smiling eyes. I quickly blew out the candle before it had a chance to spontaneously combust.

“What did you wish for?” Father asked.

“A car.” I lied.

“You can’t even drive,” Father scoffed.

“Whose fault is that?”

“I’ll take you to get your learner’s permit. Then I can teach you how to drive,” said Mateo.

Father raised his brow at him, clearly not on board with this idea.

To be honest, I really didn’t care about having a car or being able to drive. But because the thought of me behind the wheel bothered Father so much, I was determined to get my driver’s license.

“Are _you_ driving me back to school tomorrow, Father?” I asked, knowing full well that he was too _Dufour_ to deign himself to chauffer his child to school.

“I don’t think so,” he replied, then took a drag from his cigarette, “Teo should be able to drive you.”

“I just have some work I need to do tomorrow morning before we leave,” said Mateo.

I heaved a particularly forlorn sigh. “If you’re busy, it’s okay. I’ll take an Uber.”

“No, it’s alright, Jules. I’ll take you,” Mateo insisted. “I’m just not sure what time yet.”

“If I knew how to drive and if I had a car, you lot wouldn’t have to worry about how I’m getting to school.” I had said this just to be a pain in my father’s designer-menswear-clad arse.

Father refused to even acknowledge my very true statement and poured himself another cup of coffee, finishing off the French press.

“I was going to drink that,” I said.

“It’s been sitting out all morning,” said Mateo, “I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“In that case…” Father slid the old coffee along the counter towards me. “ _Voila_.”

“ _Merci beaucoup_ ,” I muttered. I didn’t want his old, discarded coffee. I dumped the cup into the sink, as if its contents were the scant dregs of Father’s affection that had been left for me.

I sat on a stool at the island, eating my eggs while Mateo tapped away on his laptop next to me. Cherie perched on Mateo’s shoulder and nibbled at the stubble that struggled to grow from his chin.

Mateo was always working. It must have been so very boring for my father, who barely worked.

Father leaned over Mateo and kissed the top of his head. “Must you take your work home with you? It’s too much, _mon amour_.” Cherie took the opportunity to jump onto Father’s shoulder.

“It’s important,” said Mateo, tilting his head back to make himself available for a proper kiss. My father obliged.

“Aren’t I important?” Father teased him, peppering little kisses on his lips. They were so gross, I had to look away. I mean, they were adorable. But gross.

“I’m doing this for you, _mi amor_ ,” said Mateo.

I knew it. We hadn’t upended our lives in England to make a change for _my_ benefit. We moved to New York for _them_. I moped and pushed the runny eggs around on my plate, which were looking a lot less cheery than when I’d come down to breakfast.

“What do you do, exactly?” I grumbled. I knew Mateo was a biomedical research scientist, but beyond that, I had no idea what he did at his new job.

“I’m trying to save the world, one epigenetic vaccine at a time.”

I still had no idea what he did.

“Mmm, my hero,” Father purred as he stole another kiss from Mateo’s lips.

I rolled my eyes hard.

“What’s an epigenetic vaccine?”

“It’s a vaccine that provides immunity against a disease by modifying gene expression, rather than stimulating release of antibodies.”

Yeah. Still no idea.

Maybe he could develop a vaccine that would make my Father less of an arsehole.

After breakfast, Father made me clean the house while he and Mateo sequestered themselves in the kitchen to prepare for the housewarming party. With domestic labor, came the realization that I wasn’t summoned home from school so that I could spend time with my family.

As I was dusting in the living room, I noticed that somebody had set a new picture frame on the mantle over the drafty fireplace. The photo wasn’t new, but the frame was.

In the picture was a model perfect family wearing matching designer jumpers, posing in front of an enormous Christmas tree in a posh Parisian flat. Though we looked like a normal family, we were anything but. I was a baby, perched on my mother’s hip. On her right was Mateo, and on her left was my father, the husband whom she and Mateo loved and shared.

I was never ashamed that my family defied convention, but I was angry that they’d dragged me into their drama the moment I had been born. I was the pretty accessory that Victoria Navarro had grown bored of once the novelty had worn off. I was the inconvenience that had forced Sebastien Dufour to get sober and grow up sooner than he would’ve liked. I don’t think I ever stopped being inconvenient. Mateo, who had no obligation to raise me, stuck around to be the parent that Victoria and Sebastien were incapable of being.

I studied the picture, it’s charred borders a quiet reminder of the fire that had engulfed my birthday cake years after the photo was taken. The artistic lighting and the deliberate angles in which my family had been posed made me wonder if the photo had been shot by a famous fashion photographer. Like Annie Leibovitz or something. Sabrina would’ve died. It wasn’t such a far fetched idea. At the time the picture had been taken, my father still had his Dufour connections.

In the photo, Victoria’s black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was so tight, it seemed to lift her cheekbones. She had the sort of gaunt face that only intermittent fasting and countershading makeup could achieve. She’d been merely dipping her toe into the fashion world, but was otherwise fully immersed in Father’s super model lifestyle.

Father looked so young, his mouth curved in a rare smile, his hair perfectly blond, without the premature grey streaks that would emerge in the years after Victoria’s death.

Mateo looked awkward in his jumper – the sort of crisp wool knit that was much too refined for his casual, broken-in style.

The casual version of Mateo came into the room wearing one of his ubiquitous band tee shirts, holding a spray bottle. “Hey, buddy, can you please use glass cleaner on--” His words were cut short when he noticed my sullen expression.

I brandished the framed picture accusingly. “We’re acknowledging her again, I see.”

Mateo’s face fell. “I just think it’s unhealthy for you to pretend your mother didn’t exist.”

“She might as well not have. I’ve no recollection of her whatsoever,” I muttered glumly.

“But _I_ remember her. Your dad remembers her.”

“He remembers her, but conveniently forgets she’s the reason he was excommunicated from the family.”

“Your dad’s own behavior got him disinherited.”

“If she hadn’t bloody overdosed on Father’s drugs, we’d still be part of the Dufour family. We’d still be rich. I’d be attending the best school in Paris and sitting in the front row of runway shows and collecting designer swag at industry parties and flipping off the paparazzi from the back seat of a Bentley.”

“Is that really the life you want?” Mateo scoffed, unconvinced.

“Wouldn’t anybody?”

“Not Victoria.” Mateo’s eyes became glassy.

It wasn’t my intention to make him cry. I set the photo back on the mantle. “If it makes you happy, we can keep it up,” I mumbled.

Mateo gave a mirthless chuckle as tears rolled down his cheeks. “It makes me feel awful, actually. But that’s good. I’d rather feel pain than feel nothing at all when I think of Victoria.”

I wondered if he was referring to my father, whose default emotional state was numb apathy, even when thinking about his dead wife.

I pulled Mateo into my arms for a hug. I didn’t like seeing him hurt. Especially knowing it was my mother who had hurt him.

“She loved us so much, you know,” he said. “She would’ve sacrificed everything she had for us. Everything she did, it was for love.”

That didn’t seem like the same person who left her toddler with a nanny in Paris to go snort lines at a New York Fashion Week after-party.

From the kitchen, I could hear Father swearing in French, barely raising his voice to curse the burned salmon that had been baking in the oven.

Mateo laughed and wiped the tears from his face. “I’d better rescue him.”

“My father, or the fish? Lost cause in both cases, in my opinion.” I was joking, but kind of not.

Father somehow salvaged the burned salmon by making it into a creamy spread, which he put on crackers and served as nibbles at the housewarming party. The last few years he’d spent in the catering business had apparently paid off in skill, if not money.

The soiree was boring. My cheeks hurt just thinking about how hard the neighbors were forcing their smiles, trying to be tolerant of the new queer couple in the neighborhood and their ethnically ambiguous gay teenage son. I was cordial throughout the party, offering nothing but surface-level conversation when approached to avoid conflict.

Not that I cared about what the neighbors thought of me, and not that my father cared what they thought of me either. I knew that Mateo wanted the night to go smoothly, because an impressed neighbor could translate to a private catering client for my father some day.

After all the guests left, Father surprised me with a proper birthday cake. Vanilla with swirls of buttercream frosting, rainbow sprinkles, and seventeen unlit candles. I never expected Father to bake for me. A warm feeling filled my chest. I didn’t want to concede that he’d done something nice for once, or that he’d made me happy for once, but I couldn’t bite back my smile or swallow my tears. This was why Father had kept me busy and out of the kitchen all day. He even knew not to embarrass me at the party by bringing out the cake earlier when the guests were still here.

“ _Joyeux anniversaire,_ Julien,” he said as he set the cake on the table, still cluttered with the remnants of the dinner party.

“ _Merci, Papa_.” I kissed him on both cheeks and endeared him in French, a gesture we shared only on birthdays and Christmas, but this time it was more affectionate than obligatory. “Do I get another wish?”

As Father lit the candles with a gold cigarette lighter, dull panic rose from deep in my chest. 

“Don’t wish for a car again,” he said, “You’re not getting one.” Father would always be Father, after all. Cake or not.

Ten lit candles… Eleven…Twelve…

“ _Dépêche-toi!_ ” I gestured with my hands, urging him to speed up the process. “Hurry up!”

He grumbled, “It’s not my fault you’re so old.”

Thirteen… Fourteen…

“Technically, it is your fault, Seb. You made him.”

Fifteen... Sixteen… Fucking finally, seventeen candles blazing.

I closed my eyes. _I wish… I wish…_

White light flashed behind my eyelids. A vision assaulted me. A memory? A hallucination?

I’m standing on a Louis XIV chair, my designer toddler shoes sinking into the blue velvet upholstery. There’s a three-tiered cake on the mahogany dining room table with too many candles.

“Seb. He’s turning four, not forty,” says Mateo.

“It looks prettier this way. All lit up like a Christmas tree,” says my father.

“ _Je déteste ça_!” I whine. I hate it. Nothing, not even a giant cake, will make me feel better.

My father tells me not to be sad. It’s my birthday. He coos and ruffles my black hair affectionately. “ _Ne sois pas triste, Julien. C'est ton anniversaire_.”

They sing Happy Birthday, my father in French, Mateo in English. I’m pouting, and by the time they get to the last refrain, I’m crying.

“Come on, Jules, cheer up. Make a wish,” says Mateo.

“ _Je veux ma maman_!” I wish for my mother.

The table is littered with framed photos of my mother and white funeral parlor flowers wilting in their vases, collected from a memorial service.

“ _Mon chéri_ … I told you… _Maman ne revient pas_.” My mother isn’t coming back. My father is crying now too. He’s kissing the top of my head.

“ _Je veux ma MAMAN_!”

Mateo envelops me in his arms. Now he’s crying. He’s kissing my father’s cheek.

“ _JE VEUX MA MAMAN_!”

The tiny flickering candles on the cake flare up, the fire surging with my rage, sending the three of us jumping back from the table. I’m kicking and screaming in Mateo’s arms.

“ _Je veux ma maman maintenant! Rends-la moi_!” I want my mother right now! She must be returned to me!

The fire engulfs the cake. The smell of burnt sugar melds with the woody scent of burning mahogany and resin. The fire licks the crystal chandelier. Tendrils of flame roll across the ceiling. Fire, fire everywhere.

Smoke fills my lungs as I continue to scream for my mother, who is never coming back. My beautiful mother, who just days ago, kissed me on both cheeks before leaving for New York City and promised to bring me back a teddy bear dressed as the Statue of Liberty.

My father and Mateo are running from the flat, onto the tree-lined Parisian street. I’m still in Mateo’s arms. Glass rains down on us as the windows blow out of their frames, spewing black smoke and ash.

I have just burned down Number Seven, Rue Auguste-Comte.

And I will burn down the world if my mother is not returned to me.

My eyes flashed open. Seventeen candles were still flickering gently on my cake. I grabbed a half empty glass of water from the table and doused the candles, ruining the confection. I ran to my bedroom. Mateo called after me with concern.

“Leave him, Teo. Give him space.” For once, my father understood what I needed.

I opened all the windows in my bedroom and sat on my bed, clutching my knees to my chest. What the hell had I just seen? Was I tripping off high doses of anti-anxiety meds? Was my ADHD-addled mind creating grossly distorted memories? Did I really burn down our flat in Paris? Was my father really ever that affectionate with me? Is my natural hair color really that dark?

I reached as far back in my memory as I could. All I remembered was my birthday cake catching fire in Paris because too many candles were left to burn for too long. But the fire I remembered was nothing compared to the inferno I saw when I closed my eyes.

It was late morning when I woke up, and mid afternoon by the time I dragged myself out of bed. If I hadn’t been so hungry, I would’ve stayed under the covers until it was time to go back to school.

Father was doing the washing up from yesterday, wearing a pinstriped apron to protect his designer clothes. Mateo was at his computer again, sitting at the island.

Father glanced up from the dishes and grumbled, “What was that all about, last night? You know I made your cake from scratch.”

“I’m okay, Father,” I intoned melodically with heavy sarcasm, “Thanks for asking. Sorry about your cake.” I trudged to the refrigerator and gathered some left-overs from the party.

“Seb, you know how he gets with lit candles,” said Mateo, “You really shouldn’t have put so many on the cake.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault the cake was wasted?” my father noisily plunked down a metal pot in the sink. “You know how hard it is to make buttercream frosting from scratch?”

I slammed the refrigerator door shut. Suddenly, I was no longer hungry, but furious. “You know how fucking hard it is to live with this fucked up brain of mine? I don’t know what’s real, and what my mind makes up.” Mateo rushed over to comfort me, but when he motioned to put his arms around me, I swat them away and spat, “It doesn’t help that you lie to me all the time! I don’t know what to believe! I can’t even trust my own memories!”

Mateo and my father exchanged deeply concerned glances. “Sit. Let’s talk. Seb, put on some coffee.”

I plopped myself down on a barstool at the kitchen island and rocked back and forth, trying to steady my anxious, shallow breathing. “Did I kill my own mother? In a fire?”

Mateo took my hand and squeezed it. His sympathetic eyes became glassy, the way they always did at the mention of my mum. He shook his head. “Why would you think that? You had nothing to do with it. She…” he hesitated and closed his eyes. Bringing the memory to the surface must have hurt like hell.

“I know the story,” I snapped, pulling my hand out of Mateo’s grasp. “You’ve lied to me about it before. How can I be sure the truth is really the truth? You told me she could hold her own at those wild parties, but she didn’t know the cocaine had been laced with heroin.” I shot an accusatory glare at my father and snarled, “But did you know? It was _your_ party. You must have known.”

Father said nothing. Emotion seemed to be bubbling just beneath his steely surface, his lip quivering. But then his expression turned cold. “I can’t do this, Teo.” He walked out of the room.

“It was _you_! I tried to kill _you_!” I roared in his wake. “When I was four! I tried to set you on fire!”

Mateo grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “Listen to me. That’s not what happened. You’re not a bad person, Jules.” He pulled me into a hysterical hug, “You would never do something like that. No matter how angry you get at your dad, you’d never do that to him.”

My breath hitched in my chest, threatening to erupt into a sob. “Then how did our flat in Paris burn down?”

Mateo slowly pulled away and his eyes grew wide. “What? Our apartment didn’t burn down. It was just a small fire. An accident. The candles on your cake… the tablecloth…,” he trailed off.

What I’d seen last night, the newly unearthed memory, had seemed so real that I’d been able to taste burnt sugar smoke. It couldn’t have been my imagination.

Mateo asked me gently, “Jules, what’s this _really_ about? The fire at Bridgehampton?”

“You know I didn’t do it,” I shook my head vehemently.

Mateo gave a subtle nod. Maybe he wasn’t sure anymore. Hell, I wasn’t sure anymore. But I had to believe it. It was the only thing that made sense. I would’ve remembered setting fire to my dorm room. There was nothing in my memories that would make me question whether or not I’d started the fire at Bridgehampton, unlike the fire in Paris. My toddler temper tantrum and the flames had been one in the same.

But it wasn’t possible. You couldn’t just will a fire into existence. Emotions didn’t make fires spread.

Mateo took a deep cleansing breath and collected himself. “I know you’re going through a lot. But you don’t have to do it alone. I think it would be good for you to talk to someone.”

I nodded. “I’m sorry that person isn’t you.”

None of us spoke for the rest of the day, which was only awkward on the car ride to school. Despite what he said yesterday, my father came along to drop me off. Maybe he felt responsible for my nervous breakdown and needed to make up for it.

We pulled into the visitor lot. “We’re here. But take your time. There’s no rush.”

Mateo sat with me in the back of the Mini Cooper for a while, rubbing my back. He was always the one to try to temper my angst. Father was too emotionally stunted for that sort of thing.

When I finally got out of the car, it was dark outside, but I could see the lights of the school from across the river.

Father was perched on a stack of cinder blocks by the gatehouse near the bridge to the island, with a lit fag dangling between his fingers. The fiery glow of the cherry at the end of his cigarette made the muscles at the back of my neck twitch, the trauma of the flaming flashback still raw.

“I’m going now,” I rasped out, my rucksack hanging from my slumped shoulders.

“You don’t have to, buddy. You can come home,” said Mateo.

“That’s not an option, Teo. Julien needs to be at school,” said Father. Odd, considering how much he had protested my enrollment.

Mateo gave me a sad, apologetic look.

I didn’t want to go home anyway. I needed to get as much distance between myself and my family for a while. I had a lot to process, and being around them didn’t help.

“I’m going,” I asserted more forcefully.

Mateo wanted to call for the shuttle, or at least to escort me up to the school on foot. I told him not to bother. I needed to walk and get my shit together before facing other people.

Father insisted that I not go alone, but Mateo told him to give me space – for once, he was right about that. While they argued, I ran across the bridge.

By the time Carlos buzzed me through the iron gates, I was already dead tired, both physically and emotionally. Until that point, I had forgotten that I still had to go all the way up the hill. It seemed like an insurmountable task in that moment. And despite my efforts to try to hold it in, I started crying. I knew I was being extra, but the slow upwelling of panic that had been building over the weekend, mixed with fear and confusion and anger, overwhelmed me.

I wept as my trainers crunched along the darkened gravel road. I was really starting to hate that sound.

Blazing through the darkness, came a set of headlights from behind me. Dr. Tandy pulled up in a vintage convertible Cadillac. “Saw your dad and Mateo on the way in. They said you might need a lift.”

As much as I didn’t want my youth counselor to see me with my face a wet mess, I accepted the ride.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said gently. “But if you feel like it, I’m a really good listener.” He tapped his ear with his finger.

Though I appreciated Dr. Tandy’s genuine compassion, I stayed silent, facing away from him until we arrived at the Manor. I thanked him for the lift.

“You know, Dr. Gupta is also an excellent listener. She probably won’t mind if you pop into her office for a chat tomorrow.”

I wasn’t a stranger to psychologists and psychiatrists, but the last thing I wanted to do right then was talk.

When I reached my room, I lingered with my hand on the knob, listening for any signs that Alex was inside. It was so quiet that, when I opened the door, I was surprised to find Alex there. He was sitting at his desk with headphones on, plugged into my stereo, doing homework.

 _Shit._ I hadn’t done my homework.

I snuck into the room, hoping I could creep in without drawing attention. But Alex slid the headphones off his ears and turned around.

“Hey!” he greeted me with more friendly enthusiasm than I was ready for. I must have looked like a right mess, because he slowly stood up from his desk, concerned. “Holy crap. You okay, bro? What happened?”

I let my bag fall to the floor and flopped onto my bed in a spent heap of dried tears and snot. “I don’t even fucking know.” I dropped my face into my hands and started crying again. As mortified as I was, I couldn’t swallow my angry tears. 

Alex sat down beside me on the bed. “Do you want to, um, talk about--?”

“No, I don’t want to bloody talk about it,” I snapped. Why did everyone want to fucking talk about it?

Alex eased off and started to sit up. “Okay, I’ll just leave you alone, then.” He didn’t seem offended.

My hand reached for his arm. “Don’t,” I whimpered. “I mean, you don’t have to. I don’t want to talk about it, but I don’t want to be left alone either. Does that make sense?”

“Totally. I get it.” Alex smiled softly and sat down.

Just his closeness comforted me, without him having to say anything. It should have felt awkward to sit together on my bed, not speaking as I cried. But it didn’t. It felt right. This must have been what having a real friend was like. And in that quiet moment, it was exactly what I needed.

“I’m not judging you, bro,” Alex said quietly, “I’m not one of those jerks who thinks real men shouldn’t cry. I gotta give props to guys who aren’t afraid to show their emotions. It takes bravery to cry in front of someone.”

I chuckled mirthlessly as I wiped my face. “I’m not brave. I’m a hot mess. I just…,” I hesitated to admit what had happened, but then I thought it was better than letting Alex assume I was crying for no reason like a drama queen. “I just had a really bad row with my father and Mateo. I think they’re trying too hard to protect me. But they’re doing it in the worst way. By hiding the truth from me. So I never know what’s real, what’s a cover story, and what my own fucked up mind is making up.”

Alex shifted nervously. I worried that I’d shared too much and made him uncomfortable.

“I feel you, bro. Totally,” he said.

I glanced at him incredulously, unconvinced that this perfectly chill bloke could relate. “Do you?”

“Yeah, man. Maybe on the outside it seems awesome being the President’s stepson. But… it’s hard. Melody says that knowing too much is dangerous for people like us. I hate living in this bubble.”

“You mean, being kept in the dark?”

“Yeah. Every detail of my parents’ lives is on a need-to-know basis. I can’t even know what they’re eating for dinner. But the bubble works in more ways than that. I can’t go anywhere without my security detail. Can’t take public transportation or ride in other people’s cars. I can only play the kind of sports that are safe, so forget about anything with weapons like archery. I’m not allowed to get hurt in any way, even emotionally. It’s like being a little bit upset somehow threatens the security of the Presidency and the First Family.”

Until now, I’d never thought how isolated, insulated, and _lonely_ the President’s children must have felt. “That’s rough, mate. I’m so sorry.” I pat his shoulder gently.

He turned to me. “No, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make this about me.”

“No worries. It doesn’t always have to be about _me._ ” It was then, that I realized Alex looked like shit. Well, he looked like shit for _Alex_ , who I’d only ever seen looking well. His smiling eyes weren’t smiling anymore. “Must have been a killer weekend,” I said, “You look absolutely knackered. Up all night raging with the lacrosse team?”

Alex shook his head. “Trouble sleeping.”

I wondered about the sorts of things that could possibly keep him up at night. Being stressed out about getting chosen for the varsity lacrosse team didn’t put bags under one’s eyes like that.

Long after lights-out, I heard Alex’s bed creaking as he tossed and turned. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t fall asleep with the restless sounds coming from Alex’s side of the room.

“If you can’t bloody sleep, I can’t bloody sleep,” I muttered crankily.

“I’m sorry, man. I can’t sleep when it’s so noisy.”

It was dead silent. All I could hear were crickets outside. It couldn’t have been the crickets keeping Alex from sleeping.

Then it dawned on me what must have been the source of his anxiety and what kept him up at night. The ghosts. If being upset was a security threat that required Alex to be immediately protected with emotional bubble wrap, I could only imagine the kind of alarm that would be raised if Alex admitted he heard voices in his head.

I remembered what Alex had done for me when I couldn’t sleep my first night at school. I didn’t think it would be too weird for me to return the favor, especially after he had sat with me while I cried. It would only be weird if I made it weird, and I didn’t think I could possibly make things any weirder between us, considering there were ghosts keeping Alex from sleeping.

I rolled out of bed, crossed the room, and nudged Alex with my knee. “Budge over.”

Like it was nothing, I lay down on the bed next to him and he didn’t object. “Well, go on then,” I said, “Tell us a bedtime story. A proper one. None of those creepy ones about dead children.”

Alex reached an arm around me, over the side of the bed, and he didn’t seem to realize he was too close until my breath hitched audibly with alarm. Not that I would’ve objected if Alex wanted to cuddle, it’s just that oh my fucking god a cute boy had his arm around me!

_Don’t make it weird, Jules._

I got over myself quickly when Alex asked me to pardon his reach and pulled out a picture book that was wedged between the mattress and the box spring. He read _Goodnight Moon_ to me under the light coming through the window. I remembered that he’d said the ghost children liked that story.

“In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red balloon. And a picture of the cow jumping over the moon.”

When he reached the end of the book, I knew the voices in his head had gone quiet for the night, as he dropped off to sleep beside me. That should’ve been my cue to return to my bed, but I was too comfortable. It was really nice to be this close to a fit bloke outside the context of us trying to smash each other’s faces in. I promised myself I would move back to my bed before Alex woke up.


	9. Chapter 9

I was awake the next morning before either of our alarms went off. Alex was facing away from me. The mattress creaked when I carefully shifted in an attempt to leave without waking him, prompting him to roll over.

Alex blinked the sleep from his eyes. “Hey…”

There was no escaping it this time. I was _in his bed_ when he greeted me in his sexy morning voice, with his hair a right-awful adorable mess and his eyes smiling lazily at me like we’d just slept together _like that_.

I tried not to linger, but he was so warm next to me and I just wanted to gaze at him as he met the day with his limitless optimism and the sort of perfectly aligned smile that only orthodontics could enable.

“Did you sleep alright?” I asked.

“Never better.” His sleepy grin threatened to destroy me.

Before my mutinous body had a chance to visibly react, I abandoned ship.

Even though worrying about bullies in the bathroom was so last year, I rushed to be the first one in the showers. More daunting than avoiding arseholes, my new challenge would be even harder. _Shit_ , bad choice of words. My new challenge would be more difficult.

I had managed to get through an entire week without witnessing my roommate changing clothes, and if seeing him all disheveled in the morning got a reaction out of me, I didn’t want to know what would happen if I saw him in a state of undress.

Fresh out of the showers, wearing an oversized bathrobe, I was brushing my teeth at the sinks when Alex sauntered out of a shower stall.

I stared hard at my reflection in the mirror, suddenly very interested in my oral hygiene, avoiding the sight of Alex, who was half naked with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Thanks for last night,” he said, ruffling his wet hair with another towel.

I spat into the sink and muttered, “You can’t say shit like that, mate.”

Alex chuckled. “Why not?”

Bloody hell. Was he really _that_ naïve?

“Because it makes it sound like we… erm…” I tried to explain, but couldn’t quite get the words out.

“Like you smashed last night,” a boy offered in passing.

I looked up from the sink, and illuminated in the vanity light, was the reflection of a beautiful head on broad shoulders. Michael Crawley times a hundred, with a Prince Charming smile, sunshine bright eyes, and flawless, chestnut brown skin.

“What up, Ty?” Alex greeted the other boy in a hyper-masculine, aggressive way, with all manner of hand slaps, fist bumps and shoulder smacks.

“What’s poppin’, Alex?” said the other boy, smirking, “You lose your V-card last night?”

I thought I was going to choke on my toothpaste.

Alex snorted a laugh and his cheeks became splotched with pink. “He’s my roommate, you dork.”

“So?” The other boy glanced knowingly between us. He looked at my reflection in the mirror, grinned smugly, and said, “We haven’t met yet. I’m Tyrell Johnson. Senior class student council rep. Captain of the varsity lacrosse team. Two-time Mavens MVP winner.”

Who does that? Who introduces themselves by rattling off their accomplishments? Blokes with chiseled bodies, unblemished skin, and massive egos, apparently.

“Erm… congrats?” I shrugged awkwardly and then rinsed out my mouth.

“You’re Jules, right? Alex told me about you.”

_Alex was talking about me? Like, positive things?_

“You should try out for Lacrosse, man. You look built for speed.”

From Tyrell’s reflection in the mirror, I caught him blatantly checking me out.

His assessment made me laugh. I was built for speed alright, as in running away from boys like him. Boys who caused wet dreams and crushed hopes with their big hands.

“Thanks, but I’m going for archery. Maybe the fencing team,” I lied, “Possibly even Mathletes. I don’t have time to train for lacrosse.”

“We’ll get you next semester for the track team,” said Tyrell. I would have taken it as a threat, had he not winked at me in the mirror. And then I wasn’t sure if he was messing with me or flirting with me.

This school was so weird.

Masters Academy was like an alternate universe where sporty blokes were nice to gay people, and quite possibly, _were_ gay people, and openly so. It was too good to be true. I was waiting for the catch – waiting for the moment when Dr. Tandy handed out little cups of cyanide-laced fruit punch, urged all his _special individuals_ to become one with the universe, and revealed himself as a cult leader.

When Tyrell walked away, my eyes followed. I screwed my head back on properly when Alex returned to the conversation we’d been having.

“Seriously, man. Thanks for being so chill last night. You’re like the only dude who gets me. At least, I _think_ you do. And I appreciate it.”

I should’ve been the one saying these exact words to _him_ , after I had practically cried on his shoulder last night.

“Yeah, no worries. I was just being human,” I said with a nonchalant shrug, “It was nothing.”

To be honest, I wasn’t the sort of person who would care so much about somebody else’s nighttime turmoil. I was typically a self-centered prick, and last night I needed Alex to stop moving on his side of the room so I could sleep. But for whatever reason, Alex seemed to care about me, and so I found myself caring about Alex. A lot.

“Nah, man. Nobody else would’ve done that for me. You’re different.”

I fluffed my hair dramatically and joked, “Well, I _am_ a special individual,” quoting the daily affirmation.

“I mean it, Jules. I feel like I could tell you anything, and you wouldn’t judge.”

I felt the same way. A tiny flower of heat began to bud within my chest.

“I don’t know, mate. If you told me you were a psycho killer, I’d probably judge you. Silently, though. Because, you know… murder.”

When Alex laughed, it reached his eyes, and the sound of it released a hundred butterflies inside me.

I was so used to falling for the wrong person – the straight bloke, the older guy, the dude who would kick my arse if he knew, the closeted guy with a girlfriend – that my instinct was to suppress the feeling and crush every last butterfly wing.

But even when a butterfly’s wings are broken, its mangled body still twitches. And every bloody time that Alex laughed at my jokes or smiled at me or said something nice to me, a hundred crippled, twitching insects tickled me from within.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Just a friendly request for comments, constructive criticism, and reactions. I'm only posting my unfinished work-in-progress here so that I can get feedback. If I'm not getting any feedback, I will not continue to post chapters. I've written 31 chapters and over 90k words, so if you want more of this story, let me know. Thank you!

Sabrina greeted me at breakfast with a caramel frappe decorated with pink whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, and a chocolate-dipped edible straw. “Happy belated birthday, darling.” She gave me a kiss on each cheek, and I felt like I had been elevated to a new status. A status I didn’t deserve.

“You really shouldn’t have,” I sighed deeply, aching to indulge in the cold drink, but hesitant to allow myself the privilege.

“You didn’t talk to your dad,” she guessed, her oxblood red lips flattening to straight line.

I shook my head slowly, unable to look at her. “I had a really rough weekend.”

She floated down beside me on the bench. “Want to talk about it?”

This seemed to be the default response from people at this school, but I hadn’t expected it from Sabrina. I had expected her to divest me of the special birthday beverage and to revoke my coffee privileges until I spoke to my father.

I took a cleansing breath. “Maybe.” I just wanted to forget about what happened and move on, but apparently that wasn’t an option at this school, where everyone seemed to be attuned to the emotional wellbeing of others.

She glanced at Cleo, who was sitting across from me. Cleo leaned forward, poised to listen in on our conversation. “Maybe somewhere else?” Sabrina offered. We brought our coffee and muffins out to the patio, leaving Cleo disappointed.

I wasn’t comfortable telling Sabrina anything too personal, since I wasn’t even sure I trusted her.

She took off her sunglasses, revealing dark doe eyes rimmed with long lashes that fanned out like glossy raven’s feathers. She blinked uneasily in the sun and pulled down the brim of her hat. If she was going to risk a migraine so that we could meet eyes when we spoke, I felt obligated to tell her something.

“I had a fight with my father and Mateo, my father’s boyfriend.” I paused, just in case she wanted to flip out about the fact that I had queer parents, though I doubted that she would.

She made a gesture with her jeweled fingers, urging me to elaborate.

“There was this thing that happened... at my old school...” I chewed on the corner of my lip, trying to decide which parts I could safely share without appearing criminally insane. “I got in trouble, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Welcome to the club, darling. You just described half the student population.”

That really wasn’t comforting. How many of these kids were secretly young offenders? I shook the thought out of my head and continued. “And this weekend, my dad made me a cake, and I poured a glass of water on it because it triggered a memory of something that happened when I was four. Something very similar to the thing that happened at my old school.

“But I remembered it differently. It’s like the memory I had of that event when I was four was wrong all of these years. So I asked my father and Mateo about it. My father’s kind of useless, to be honest, and didn’t answer me. But Mateo insisted it happened the way I originally remembered it. I think he’s lying.”

I paused again, waiting to see if I’d lost Sabrina. Hell, I was confusing myself.

She clasped my hands tenderly between hers and gave me a soft smile. “You’re one of us,” she breathed out, sounding deeply sympathetic. “ _Of course_ you are. Why else would you be at Masters Academy, out of all the schools in the world?”

I looked at her sideways. Maybe I was right, and this place really was a cult compound masquerading as a hippie school. Was there cyanide in this coffee?

“You’ve had what I call a Masters Flashback. It’s like pieces of our memories were erased. Years. Days. Hours. Missing from our heads. Then we came here, and boom. Long lost memories coming out of the woodwork. Memories we didn’t even know we’d lost, now coming back to wreak havoc on our psyche… Don’t look at me like that, Julien.”

I guessed I must’ve been making a skeptical face. But really, I was thinking about my short stay in jail, and how I’d blacked out for almost two days. Maybe I hadn’t been unconscious for that stretch of time. Maybe my memories were… _missing_. Losing memories of an event that happened thirteen years ago was understandable. But losing memories of something that happened days ago? It didn’t seem likely.

“Hello?” She snapped her fingers in my face, causing me to flinch. “Still with me, Dufour?”

Absently, I nodded.

“Good, because it gets weirder. There’s something about this school that triggers these flashbacks. They only happen to people who end up _here_. So you can’t even say it’s a side effect of mental illness or learning disabilities or whatever. Believe me, I’ve gone to school with some messed up kids before. New York City public schools are no joke. But I never met anyone who had flashbacks like this, until I came to Masters Academy.”

I shrank away and sat limply in my chair. She was messing with me. She had to be. Masters Academy was a magnet school for kids with memory loss? This _Cultivated Environment of Serenity_ triggered flashbacks? Yeah, no. I was an idiot for telling Sabrina anything. Of course she’d throw it back in my face.

“I opened up to you. And you mock me with this bullshit?” I said, betrayal rendering my voice to an indignant high pitch. “I know I can be a bit of an arsehole sometimes. But I don’t deserve that. I learned my lesson, okay? I’ll lay off Ryan. I get it. He’s not so different from me.”

Sabrina pinched the bridge of her nose and screwed her eyes shut. She shook her head slowly and said, “I’m getting a migraine. I just can’t with you.” The attitude came back when the sunglasses went on. “Okay first of all, congratulations Julien, you’re learning not to be a dick. Good job. Second of all, what kind of scheming evil queen do you think I am, to fabricate all of that just to make you feel like a dork?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re telling me this Masters Flashback thing is real?”

Sabrina nodded. “There are entire years that I can’t remember. I’ll look at photos, and I can’t remember experiencing the stuff in the pictures. Mostly stuff from when I was little. Stuff with my dad. It’s not even bad stuff. It’s all good. And I have no recollection that it ever happened. But since I came here, I’ve had these little flashes of recollection. Glimpses of my dad. I see him just as clearly as if he were standing in front of me. They’re usually triggered when I’m focusing my camera. Or when I’m having a bad migraine.”

This resonated deeply inside me in unexpected ways. I had always just accepted the fact that I couldn’t remember my mother. I had never thought about those memories as being _missing_. If I thought about it hard enough, would there be other missing time periods from my memory?

“Why is this even a Masters Academy thing?” I asked, still reeling from how bizarre it all was.

“Good question. I’ve been trying to figure that out since ninth grade, to no avail. Dr. Gupta tells me I’m grasping at threads to try to create order out of the chaos in my mind. She says that when people have been through trauma, they sometimes connect threads that have no real connection in reality.”

“Bollocks,” I scoffed.

“Exactly. Dr. Gupta is always trying to normalize crazy shit. It’s her job. To make us feel comfortable being exactly who we are, which incidentally, for some of us, is being bat shit crazy.” She quickly added, “But never use the C-word in front of her. She’ll try to tell you that _crazy_ is other people’s perception of you. Not what you are.”

What was so wrong with self-acceptance? “Sounds brilliant. Better than being punished for being crazy.”

“But here’s the thing, Julien. Normalizing neurologic divergence is great for the most part. But it really messes with certain people’s perception of themselves.” She leaned close and whispered conspiringly, “Your roommate, for example. He’s in denial. And it’s slowly killing him.”

I let out a quiet, shocked gasp. “In denial? About being gay?”

“No, you idiot. You of all people should know homosexuality is not a neurologic divergence.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot that’s what we were talking about for a second.” I had gotten distracted by the shiny object that was the hope of Alex being a little more like me.

“It’s not my place to share Alex’s secrets. But I care about him. And if you’re going to be living with him this year, I want you to look out for him. We have access to all the help we will ever need at Masters Academy, but it does us no good if we can’t accept the fact that we _need_ help.”

I remembered Alex telling me about the ghosts. _I’m not crazy_ , he had said. I was probably right about him hearing voices in his head. But how was I supposed to help him if he didn’t think he needed it? How could I convince him that mental illness didn’t threaten National Security, and self care wasn’t against security protocol.

Sabrina sighed. “Alex is special. His friendship is a gift. But being his friend is… frustrating. Because of his… connections.” She massaged the center of her forehead and groaned, “Ugh, migraine. I need to take something before class.” From under her hat, she plucked a tightly rolled joint. “Care to join me? The woods are just over there.” She gestured toward a copse of trees next to the Manor with the tilt of her head.

“Maybe another time.” Not that I was opposed to taking illicit substances for pleasure. Next to the hard narcotics that my mother used to do, weed seemed innocuous. But I didn’t fancy trying to navigate the school day while being high for the first time ever.

Sabrina was proving herself to be less like Jasmine. So even though I didn’t partake of the joint, I kept her company in the woods. Besides, I couldn’t, with a clear conscience, leave her alone in a flammable forest with a lighter and a bundle of burning dried leaves. I kept my coffee cup half full in case I needed it to douse a flame.

Fortunately, Sabrina didn’t set the woods on fire, and only took a few hits to dull her migraine.

“So if your meds make you sensitive to light, and light gives you migraines, and migraines trigger flashbacks, is it worth taking those meds? Like, would you die if you didn’t take your meds?” I asked her.

“Would I die?” She shrugged coolly and gently stubbed out the joint on the bottom of her Doc Marten’s. I watched to make sure the embers died completely. “Maybe indirectly.”

“Is it worth it? Dealing with the migraines?”

She didn’t hesitate to answer. “Absolutely. Without my meds, I couldn’t be who I am.”

“Fluoxetine? Mirtazapine? Escitalopram?”

Sabrina smirked. “Damn, Julien. Are you asking or offering? Either way, the answer is _no_. Are you on all of those? Because that’s _a lot_.”

I shook my head vehemently. “Me? No. Not those. My father, however…”

“My mom’s been on them too. Saved her life. She got so depressed after my dad went M.I.A.”

“He left your mom? That sucks.” I realized too late that my words probably came off as insensitive.

Sabrina answered sharply, “No, like literally missing in action. U.S. Army. Afghanistan.”

I felt awful, for her dad and for how I had jumped to conclusions. So I opened up to her again. “My mum left me. Permanently. Fucked off to a party and overdosed.”

“I think I read that somewhere. She was a model, right? Like your dad?”

I nodded. I wished I hadn’t brought it up. I really didn’t want to talk about Victoria. I glanced at my watch, hoping I could use the time as an excuse to leave. We were already very late to class.

#

When I got back to my room at the end of the school day, there was a note taped to the door.

_Namaste, Julien!_

_Would you please bless us with your presence at group therapy this afternoon? I invite you to join us in the yoga studio at 4:30._

_Best,_

_Dr. Shivani Gupta_

I yanked the note off the door. “Is this how Masters Academy doles out detention slips?” I asked Alex.

He shook his head. “Group therapy is group therapy. Detention is also therapy, but it’s still called detention.”

“Am I allowed to decline the invitation?”

Alex shook his head again. “She’ll just keep inviting you until you cave. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

I noticed that I’d missed several text messages on my mobile while I was in classes.

A message from my father read, _Feeling better?_ _Call us when you can. The cake is water under the bridge._ Did he mean that literally or figuratively. Because it worked both ways.

A message from Mateo said, _I hope all is well. Let me know either way_. _Worried about you. Love you. Miss you already._

I sighed, crumpled up Dr. Gupta’s note, and threw it in the bin, realizing I wasn’t being punished for being late to class. I should have known that Dr. Tandy’s suggestion of having a chat with Dr. Gupta wasn’t _just_ a suggestion. Group therapy was a big part of most crime diversion programs.

When Alex and I arrived at the yoga studio later, Sabrina and Cleo were there, lounging on giant beanbag pillows arranged on the floor in a circle. But instead of facing the middle of the circle, they were facing out, their legs extending like flower petals from the center.

As if I were her new cellmate in prison, Sabrina asked me, “What are you in for?”

“I thought this wasn’t detention.” Inelegantly, I flopped onto a pillow next to hers. Our heads were in intimate proximity without being forced to look at one another.

“It’s worse,” she said. “It’s a self-actualization session.”

“Which is…?”

Cleo explained, “We work towards realizing our full potential and becoming our true selves.”

“Translation for those of us not indoctrinated into the cult, please?” I asked.

Sabrina answered blithely, “Dr. Gupta drills the Daily Affirmation into our heads until we’re eager to drink the Kool-aid.”

“So this _is_ a cult,” I said, only half joking.

Cleo scoffed. “It’s one of the most progressive schools in the world. Just because grandpa does things differently here, doesn’t mean he has a secret religious extremist agenda.”

Alex clarified, “She means there’s no church affiliation, dude. Just a dedication to helping kids who fall through the cracks.” He sounded like he was drinking the Kool-Aid too.

Sabrina turned her face toward me and smirked. “It’s a cult.”

She and I snickered. Cleo harrumphed.

Ryan arrived last, and the only pillow left was the one next to me. I could tell he was making an effort to avoid my eyes. He flipped his long hair to effectively draw a curtain between us.

“Erm… I’m sorry, Ryan,” I said.

He glanced around the room with worry and said, “But there’s nowhere else for me to sit.”

Maybe he thought there was a _but_ left hanging at the end of my sentence. Like, _I’m sorry, Ryan, but you can’t sit next to me._ He had already become used to assuming I would be mean to him, and that made me feel like a horrible person.

“It’s fine,” I said. I wanted him to know that I was sorry I had made him cry last week. But I was shit at apologies as it was, and I didn’t know how to talk to someone like Ryan.

Then I thought about what Sabrina had said. _He’s still human_. Maybe there wasn’t a special way to talk to Ryan, other than with a little more sensitivity. I wasn’t used to talking like that, but I owed it to him to try.

“Ryan,” I said softly, “I meant to say I’m sorry for being kind of a dick to you at dinner the other day.”

Ryan’s blue eyes stared emptily at me. Maybe he didn’t trust I was being genuine. “Oh… Okay.”

It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something, I guess.

Cleo whispered behind me, “That was good. You’re learning. But he doesn’t owe you forgiveness.”

How did she know what I was thinking? That was next level know-it-all creepy.

I craned my neck and hazarded a glance at Alex, wondering if he had finally gotten the memo that I was an arsehole. He gave me a small encouraging smile and a shrug, which I interpreted as, _You’re not the worst._ Again, it wasn’t much, but it was something.

Dr. Gupta entered the yoga studio, greeted us with a serene _Namaste_ and lit an aromatherapy candle with a match. The crackling whisper of combustion and the pithy smell of sulfur made the muscles in the back of my neck tighten.

 _Relax, Jules. It’s just one candle._ My fingers, which had been clenched around the hem of my sleeves, uncurled as the sweet, pleasing scent of vanilla latte wafted from the candle.

“We’re going to begin as we do every session,” said Dr. Gupta, “With a mindfulness exercise.”

That was a fancy way of telling us we had to meditate for five minutes. She instructed us to take a long cleansing breath, to visualize a peaceful, safe place, and connect all our senses to it. She asked us to go to that safe place in our minds, and then she played a three-note chime on a tiny set of bells. Was I just imagining it, or were those chimes the same notes as my doorbell? Weird.

The problem was, I couldn’t find my safe place. I kept bouncing from location to location, trying to find a suitable one, and in the process, couldn’t properly relax. From my bedroom in London, I hopped to the British Museum, to any kitchen where Mateo and Father were cooking together, to the racks of hidden treasures at my favorite consignment shops, to the used records store, to the little café near our old flat that had the best vanilla latte. And on, and on.

After meditation, Dr. Gupta had us recite the Daily Affirmation as if it was a mantra.

_I matter. I am a special individual. I am more powerful than I know. I am a conduit for the energy of the universe._

“I know these four statements may seem far from our reality or our understanding of ourselves,” said Dr. Gupta, “And I get that some of the affirmations are more abstract, particularly the last one. It’s perfectly fine if you don’t believe all of them. Or any of them.”

Okay, so maybe the Masters Academy philosophy sounded a little less like a cult belief system and more like an approach to self-empowerment. That being said, it was still weird.

“We all have room to grow, and eventually, you’ll find these affirmations to be your truth. That’s why we work on self-actualization. To help you become the person you were always meant to be.

“Now, I’d like each of you to think about which of the daily affirmations feels the furthest from your reach. We’re going to leave out the _energy of the universe_ one, which I know is kind of _out there_ , even for adults. Take a moment to find that answer inside yourselves, and when you’re ready, I invite you to share.”

Cleo took no time at all and chimed in, “To be honest, Dr. Gupta, none of the affirmations feel particularly out of my reach. I know that all of them are in my grasp.” Her self-assured answer didn’t surprise me.

“I’m more powerful than I know? Yeah, no,” Sabrina scoffed. “It’s really hard for a girl like me to feel powerful in this white-dominated patriarchal society.”

Sabrina’s answer gave me some perspective about why she was so hell bent on using my father to get her foot in the door of Dufour Magazine. I should have felt compelled to make more of an effort to help, but I felt just as powerless.

Alex admitted, “I matter… I can’t say that without feeling selfish.”

My heart clenched. He was much too good for me.

“For me, all of them seem far fetched,” I said. Maybe it was a cop out - a way to participate without really having to do the hard work of self reflection. But I honestly couldn’t affirm any of the statements, with the slight exception of _I am a special individual_.

I didn’t matter. I was a useless teenager with no aspirations, other than to get through school and come out the other end mentally in-tact, hopefully escape jail time and try not to get arrested again. What I did, or who I was, had no bearing on the rest of the world. In the grand scheme of things, my existence was inconsequential.

And power? I held more power in my name and my perceived station than I deserved. I hadn’t earned the prestige of the Dufour name, and eventually I would lose it. It didn’t belong to me to begin with.

Was the energy of the universe flowing through me? Nope. The universe was just endless, black space, punctuated by shiny things.

When it was Ryan’s turn to share, he said, “I don’t believe that I’m a special individual.”

I had to bite my tongue so hard, I could’ve bled. _Honey, you are the most special individual in the whole room._ Just thinking the insult made me hate myself for allowing the Mean Girl mentality to seep back in. Making an extra effort to engage my brain-to-mouth filter didn’t excuse the fact that I was still reflexively thinking arsehole thoughts, even after I’d so vehemently rejected Jasmine’s influence.

Ryan explained, “The things that make me exceptional… like my talent for math, my photographic memory, my autism… don’t make me feel special. It makes me feel like a freak.”

I could relate. I had impractical talents, like being able to accurately identify songs within the first few notes, or being able to hold ice in my fists longer than anyone in a contest of endurance. It didn’t make me special. It made me a dork.

But more than that, as an openly gay, mixed-race immigrant, I understood what it was to feel like a freak, simply by existing.

So, really, I had none of those four affirmations within reach. Not even _I am a special individual,_ as I had originally thought. Useless and unimportant, I was nothing special. An inconsequential, shiny spec in the dark void of the universe, tethered to nothing, going nowhere.

Alex had been right. Dr. Gupta had gotten me to examine shit I didn’t even know I had to examine. And it kind of _hurt_. It was a heavy, suffocating pressure on my chest. A sharpness in my heart. Before I could make an excuse to get the hell out of there, I was crying. In front of Alex. _Again_. Ugh.

“Let it out, Julien. This is a safe space. Nothing leaves this circle,” Dr. Gupta reassured me. “Crying is a natural reaction in this exercise, and you’re far from the first one to do so.”

“I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just… a lot,” I said.

“May we lay healing hands on you?” Dr. Gupta asked, “You’re free to refuse. We respect boundaries without question.”

“Lay _what_?” I asked, sniffling, narrowing my teary eyes, recoiling from Dr. Gupta.

“I don’t think Jules does touching, Dr. Gupta,” Cleo said.

“He totally does touching. He practically lets Alex tackle him,” Sabrina drawled.

My face flushed more hotly than it already burned. I glanced at Alex, embarrassed of what Sabrina’s words might imply.

“Do you want a group hug, dude,” said Alex. It was a clarification, not a question.

Dr. Gupta explained further, “When we lay healing hands, we all close our eyes. There’s no judgment about who does or doesn’t participate. We gather our energy to offer comfort, and we place a hand on your shoulders and your back. A group hug, yes, but more respectful of personal boundaries.”

“It’s not as weird as it sounds,” said Sabrina. “It feels surprisingly good.”

It had to be better than sobbing in front of everybody, or running from the room in an emotional state. I nodded meekly. “Okay.”

We all got up from our beanbag pillows. Dr. Gupta, Alex, Sabrina, Cleo, and Ryan stood behind me.

“Our eyes are closed, Julien,” Dr. Gupta told me. “Please close yours and accept our healing energy. Let it release you from your pain.”

I let my eyelids fall, a little uneasy about the whole thing.

And then I felt a hand on my shoulder through my Oxford shirt. Long fingers ringed in cold metal, tipped with sharp nails. A queen, blessing her gilded knight before dispatching him to fight for her. Sabrina.

Then another hand landed on my opposite shoulder. A grasp that was firm, but also tender. A tireless guardian and self-sacrificing protector. Alex.

A small hand rested low on my back. The assured press of little fingers. An assertive defender and astute sentinel. Cleo.

Two more hands found my back, two _different_ hands, each with a feather light touch.

One timid and hesitant. Distrustful and guarded. An unwilling rival. Ryan.

The other gentle touch was warm and imbued with what I could only describe as _power_. Somehow, I felt her empathy radiating into my body as a wave of good vibes. Dr. Gupta.

I’d never felt anything like this before. Beneath all of those hands, the weight of my emotions vaporized, from an overwhelming flood to a manageable mist.

For the first time, someone had my back. It felt really good.

Surely Dr. Gupta had been made aware of my birthday blow up, because she had me stay after the group session to speak with her alone.

“Do you know why you’re here, Jules?” she asked me, speaking barely above a whisper as we sat face-to-face on beanbag pillows.

“That self-actualization stuff was proper deep. I don’t think I’m ready for existentialism.” I wasn’t trying to be funny, but Dr. Gupta chuckled softly.

“I meant, why you’re here.” She gestured widely at the room.

I still didn’t know if she was talking about the yoga studio or the school. Maybe it didn’t matter. “Because the court ordered me to?”

She cocked her head to the side and offered me a reassuring smile. “This isn’t a pop quiz, Jules. I’m not looking for a specific answer. You’re the one doing the searching. I’m merely guiding you, helping you find the answers within your self.”

I flopped back onto the beanbag pillow and let my body sink into the beads with a defeated sigh. “I don’t know why I’m here. Other than because it’s better than being in juvy.” I sat up abruptly and narrowed my eyes at Dr. Gupta. “Wait. You’re not supposed to know about that. Privacy policy.”

She put up her palms. “I don’t know any details. I only know that you’re participating in a diversion program. If that’s all you want me to know, that’s fine. You can be as candid or as private as you’d like. But if I’m going to help you, it would facilitate our discussions if you shared more than less.”

“Where do I even start?” I asked with a snort, not expecting an answer.

“Think of it like a chain reaction,” said Dr. Gupta, “Start with right here, right now, and keep asking yourself _why_ until you can’t anymore. Why are you having this particular session with me right now?”

“Because my parents probably told Dr. Tandy that I needed somebody to talk to?” I glanced up at Dr. Gupta to see if I was correct. She hadn’t been kidding that these questions were for me to answer, not for her.

She smiled. “Good. Now keep going. Ask yourself why. Why did your parents think you needed to talk to me?”

The flame of the aromatherapy candle glowed, unmoving in the stillness of the room as I stared at it. That knot in my stomach tightened. “I need somebody to talk to. Because I don’t trust my father and Mateo to tell me the truth. Because they’ve lied to me before. Because they think I’ll lose my shit if I know the truth. Because I’ve lost my shit before. Because I have ADHD and anxiety and I can’t control my anger. Because I get frustrated when people don’t understand me. Because everybody blames me for everything even when it isn’t my fault. Because… Because… I don’t know why.”

The candle flame flickered when I let out a breathy, exasperated sound.

“That was great, Jules. You’ve got your essential question now. The thing you need to work on.”

“The thing _I_ need to work on?” I scoffed. “I can’t fix what other people think… right?” I looked to Dr. Gupta for guidance. When she smiled serenely, wordlessly, I flopped again, frustrated. “Come on, Doctor. You’re the one with the degree. Tell me what to do.”

“Something tells me that, if I did tell you what to do, which I won’t, you wouldn’t do it anyway,” said Dr. Gupta. She was right. “You’re the type of person who needs to do things your own way, and I respect that. You’ll find all the answers you need. But nobody expects you to find the answers instantly. Take time to think about it. We’ll talk again.”

I didn’t need time to think about it. It was clear to me now what had gotten me to this point. What had started it all.

 _A banana._ No, not a banana! _But you said…_ I know I said that once, but it’s obviously deeper than that.

Why did people blame me for things that weren’t my fault? Because people sucked. I was a gravely misunderstood person. People made assumptions about me based on what they’d heard or based on their own inherent biases. And they concluded that I was disrespectful. Attention-seeking. An easy target. A criminal.

I couldn’t change the fact that people sucked. But maybe I could change how people perceived me.

I needed to remember exactly what happened the day my desk caught fire at Bridgehampton. I needed to find that lost memory. Then I’d be able to prove to the district judge that it was a freak accident and that I was not guilty of a crime. I could return to Masters, exonerated, and prove to the world that Julien Dufour was not a juvenile delinquent.

The only problem was, tiny seeds of doubt had been planted in my head, all because of my stupid birthday candles. I needed to get some answers, and those answers were never going to come from Mateo or my father.

Dr. Gupta was right. I needed to find those answers inside me. But the thought of going through that emotional upheaval all over again, didn’t make me rush to find the answers. I had some time. My December court hearing was still months away.

“Before you go, Jules, I need to speak with you as your doctor. What’s your anxiety level these days? Would you say it’s the same as usual, worse, or better?”

“Worse. Way worse,” I admitted, thinking about the panic that triggered my birthday flashback.

“We want to make sure your condition is managed properly. Are you taking your medication every day?”

“Religiously.”

She pursed her lips with concern, which made me wonder if the meds were even working.

“Do you think my dose needs to be upped?” I asked her, worried that my ADHD and anxiety were the worst they’ve ever been.

“Possibly. But I’d rather not jump to pharmaceutical intervention just yet,” she said. “Perhaps you need some exercise. A healthy body fosters emotional wellbeing. Have you thought about joining any of the sports teams? It’s a great way to channel aggression and release frustration.”

I tried hard not to scoff, but it couldn’t be helped. People at this school were like Christian missionaries when it came to recruiting for sports, and I was neither interested in finding Jesus Christ or joining an athletic team.

“I signed up for archery, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”

“Oh, you mean Kyudo. Excellent!” She clapped her hands together, smiling with approval, “That’s perfect for you, actually. The Japanese martial art of the bow. It combines both gross and fine motor skills with meditation and concentration. It’s a great way to learn how to focus your cosmic energy.”

Was this woman my psychiatrist or my metaphysical guru? Unfortunately, she was probably both.


End file.
